


It Will Not Always Be Summer

by Wuchel



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, John Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 26,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wuchel/pseuds/Wuchel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Harold Finch had missed something, a clue to a threat, which had cost him dearly. And so far he hadn't been able to find out when exactly it all had gone wrong - which was ridiculous in his mind - considering that he had created the most powerful surveillance tool the world had ever seen." - Set in late season two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** The characters of _Person of Interest_ don't belong to me. I'm just borrowing them, and I'm definitely not gaining any profit by doing so. 
> 
> **Author's notes:** This story takes place in late season two. It's canon up to episode 2x16 - _Relevance_ and goes AU from there. 
> 
> **Acknowledgements:**   
>  Huge thanks to **scully1138** for patiently fixing all the typos, the grammar mistakes (three words: The Tense Thing -.-) and taming the wild-roaming commas. I still feel bad about all the work I caused you. 
> 
> Also a HUGE Thank You! to **RadioShack84** for volunteering her insights into medical procedure and lending an additional set of eyes in the proof-reading process. You rule!
> 
> All the mistakes that still remain are all my own.
> 
> And last but not least, a shout-out for **ShaolinQueen** , who once again listened to my whining. Thanks for talking sense into me to not abandon this story.

Harold Finch stared at the black and white pieces on top of the checkered board. His mind however wasn’t calculating the proper moves in anticipation of the various probable scenarios that could be playing themselves out. Instead his mind was a total blank.

He was exhausted, drained of all energy and emotion, after having worked himself into the ground over the last couple of weeks. The only reason he had come here today was because – months ago – he had made a deal, and Harold Finch was a man of his word. 

He had contemplated turning to the man across from him for help a few times over the last few weeks, but he’d been reluctant to move himself into a position where he would owe Carl Elias any favors. Now, he wasn’t so sure that his help would make any difference anymore. 

Harold could feel Elias's eyes on him. He knew the man was extremely intelligent and highly perceptive, and Harold had no doubt that in Elias's chosen line of work he had to be. Being able to read between the lines and pick up on the telltale signs of fear, insecurity and deception could very well mean the difference between success and failure – life and death. 

This actually wasn’t that much different from what was required of him to assure that his little venture kept running smoothly. Yet, Harold Finch had missed something, a clue to a threat, which had cost him dearly. And so far he hadn’t been able to find out when exactly it all had gone wrong - which was ridiculous in his mind - considering that he had created the most powerful surveillance tool the world had ever seen. 

Yes, playing a game of chess for the entertainment of one of New York’s most formidable crime bosses was definitely the last thing on Finch’s mind. And he knew he had blown his pretense of "nothing being wrong" by missing the very obvious danger to his rook by one of Elias's pawns during his last move.

Now - as he sat on the more than uncomfortable, cold metal bench in the austere visitor’s room at Rikers - he kept his eyes fixed on the board, trying hard to concentrate on his next move. Harold heard the shift in Elias's posture as the man lifted his chin off its perch on his clasped hands, tilted his head to the side and pierced Harold with an inquisitive gaze. 

“You seem distracted today, Harold. Is everything alright?” Elias's smooth voice cut through the silence, causing Finch to lift his eyes to meet the other man’s gaze. There was no malice on Elias's face, at least none that Harold could detect, and his question had indeed sounded sincere. 

Curling his lips into a small, apologetic smile Harold inclined his head in an acquiescent nod. “I apologize. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”  
He re-directed his attention back to the board, finally having made up his mind about his next move. 

Elias watched as Harold moved his chess piece to the spot he’d been anticipating. He leaned forward with his elbows propped on the table, and took in the man in front of him.   
The first time Elias had laid eyes on Harold Crane he had not known what to make of the man. Crane had sat at precisely the same table they were sitting at now, looking like it was the last place he had wanted to be. With his hands palms down on the table and his fingers touching like he needed the contact for encouragement, Crane had worn a look of insecurity, his eyes wide behind the thick glass of his spectacles. A man Elias would have not given a second glance if they had passed each other on the street. 

Crane’s composure had changed as soon as the guards had left them alone, piquing Elias's interest. As Crane had revealed to him who he was Elias hadn’t been able to keep a satisfied smile from spreading across his face. The boss.

Elias had been wondering what sort of man or organization had managed to make a man like John Reese - who had clearly been subjected to military and covert training - pledge his unwavering allegiance, ever since he had met him. He had been extremely impressed by the abilities – the calm and confident efficiency, coupled with a quick and sharp-as-a-knife mind – John had displayed during their time running from the Russian hit-squad. He hadn’t been lying when he told John how grateful he was to him for having saved his life. He had also been dead serious when he asked Reese to come work for him, but hadn’t been surprised when his offer had been declined – repeatedly and without a thought.   
Incorruptible and loyal. A combination Elias highly valued in his men and also in his adversaries. It made for clear lines without gray areas. 

Crane’s and his conversation had lasted only a few minutes, but it had been enough time for Elias to recognize the incredible intellect that hid behind the thick glasses and the unimposing exterior of Harold Crane. A man, Elias had realized, whose calculating mind at least matched - if not surpassed - his own.

Coercing Crane into playing chess with him on a regular basis was just partly based on the thought of keeping his enemies close. It was mainly an act of self-indulgence. Elias liked to keep his mind sharp, to hone his ability for thinking five steps ahead of his opponents and figuring out their strategies. Until he had met Crane no one had come close to engaging him in a battle of minds on such a level as Harold had been doing over the last couple of months. 

Playing chess with Crane had proven to be a welcome challenge, stimulating Carl’s mind and forcing him to be at the top of his game if he wanted to keep up with the ever changing strategies deployed by the other man.

They never talked much during their sessions except for the occasional discussion of _‘hypothetical and highly unlikely illegal’_ scenarios. Over the months of this arrangement Elias had studied the man, trying to learn his tells, trying to figure out what made the man tick. Still, after months Harold Crane was as much a mystery as he had been on their first meeting. Elias research and inquiries into Crane’s background had yielded little to no results.   
As far as Elias knew he’d been playing chess with a man that did not exist - a detail which by all means intrigued him, but didn’t stop him from enjoying their regular encounters. 

But something had started to feel off. Elias had noted subtle changes in the man over the last couple of weeks, cluing him in to the fact that something had been bothering and distracting the man, even though Crane did his best trying to hide his unrest.

As Elias had taken his seat across from the man today Crane had looked like he always did. His face – while polite – a careful and unreadable mask and his clothes as expensive and impeccable as always. 

The devil was in the details, though. Taking a closer look at Harold Crane Elias noted that the lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened, and the evidence of deep worry and concern had etched itself into the skin of Crane’s forehead. He looked tired, exhausted even, managing to slump his shoulders despite his limited range of motion.

Elias leaned back again, having noticed that Crane had not really answered his question. He nonchalantly reached for one of his black chess pieces, carefully executing his next move. Crane followed the move with his eyes, keeping them fixed on the board between them. 

Sighing, Elias steepled his hands. “You know,” he began evenly, “being locked up in Rikers doesn’t mean I don’t hear things.”

Crane looked up, his eyes peering unblinkingly through his lenses, but remained quiet. A small smile twitched at Elias's lips - after all this time Harold Crane still kept his cards close to his chest. It almost insulted him that Crane had so far refused to ask for his help. 

“Haven’t heard a lot about John lately.” Elias said casually, pausing to watch Harold stiffen at the mention of his partner in vigilantism’s name. “How is he these days?”

It was an innocent enough question, yet the brief and rapid blinking of Crane’s eyes it had caused was like the equivalent of an emotional earthquake on the man’s face. Harold continued to just look at Elias for at least another ten seconds, trying to make up his mind on how to answer that question - only to come to the realization that Carl Elias probably already knew.

Losing the battle for control over his carefully crafted and usually inscrutable blank expression, Harold’s facial features turned grave and with an undercurrent of loss and desperation in his voice that he couldn’t suppress any longer he admitted, “I don’t know.”

 

_To be continued ..._


	2. Chapter 2

_\- Four weeks prior -_

“Finch," John’s voice drifted from the library’s speakers, “I gift wrapped our perp for the detectives.”

Harold almost sighed a heartfelt “Finally!” at Mr. Reese’s words. The last couple of days had seen them practically scrambling to keep up with the numbers. Lately the Machine had been acting strangely, with suspiciously long periods of no contact at all on the one hand and literally overrunning them with numbers on the other. It was rather worrisome, but currently Finch just didn’t have the time to ponder any further on the subject. 

Over the last three days they had handled a total of five numbers and Finch couldn’t really remember the last time he had slept more than one hour at a time. And it had been even worse for Mr. Reese, who had literally been crisscrossing the city at a perpetual run. Harold appreciated that the ex-op hadn’t uttered one syllable of complaint, but he’d been able to pick up the strain and exhaustion in the younger man’s voice. The traces were minuscule but to Harold, who depended on figuring out the state of mind and well-being of the more than tight lipped John Reese merely by listening to the nuances in his soft voice - it was clear that even John was slowly reaching his limits. 

“That’s good to hear.” Harold replied instead. “I’ll make sure to inform them.”

“I’ll be back at the library in about 30 minutes.”

“Actually, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, a little surprised himself considering the run they’d had, “there’s no need.”

“No new number?” John asked, and Harold allowed a small smile to play around his lips at the slight undercurrent of hope he’d detected in Reese’s voice.

“No. It seems we are finally getting an evening off.” He heard Reese sigh as the other man let go of the pent up tension of the last three days. Harold knew that it wasn’t really late yet - just shy of six o’clock in the evening - but if Mr. Reese felt anything close to as tired as he felt then the prospect of hitting the sack early should be music to the man’s ears. “I suggest you head home and get some rest, Mr. Reese.”

“You sure you don’t need me, Finch?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll just finish up here.” Harold’s intentions for the evening probably didn’t differ much from Reese’s. He’d take Bear for a much needed walk through the park then treat himself to a meal at one of his favorite restaurants before heading home and catching up on some shut-eye. That was if the Machine didn’t have different plans. 

“Alright.” John’s voice sounded lighter now. “Call me when we have a new number.”

“I will.” Harold turned his attention back to his computers, making sure that he wiped every trace of his meddling from the systems he had hacked in order to work their latest number. He nearly startled as John’s voice once more filled the air around him, having figured that the other man had terminated the connection already.

“You know, Finch”, John said, and Harold recognized the change in his voice from business to relaxed teasing, “sometimes a vacation does sound very appealing. Don’t you have a private island, or something?”

Finch smirked. “I did,” he replied matter-of-factly, “but I’m afraid it got moved.” Harold could literally hear John’s eyebrows crease in confusion in the brief silence that followed his cryptic remark before he tentatively asked, “That’s a ‘no’ on the vacation, then?”

“No rest for the wicked, I’m afraid.”

John chuckled. “See you in the morning, Finch.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Finch arrived at the library early the following day as was his habit. Having moved the metal gate aside that had blocked his entrance and was designed to keep unexpected and nosy visitors out off his sanctuary, he unclasped Bear from his leash and limped over to the cabinet where the dog’s food was stored. Following his morning routine Harold prepared Bear’s food while his computer systems booted. He hadn’t received a new number yet, so there was no reason to rush.

“Here, Bear.” He said softly as he placed the bowl in front of the patiently waiting Malinois and ran his hand lovingly through Bear’s soft fur. 

Harold wasn’t expecting Mr. Reese to show up for at least another hour or two, but he counted on his employee to come bearing breakfast. Until then he would settle with a cup of freshly brewed Sencha Green Tea and immerse himself in his system maintenance routine, while Bear kept him company lying on his doggy bed right beside Harold’s workstation.

The persistent rumbling of his stomach alerted Finch to the fact that apparently some time had passed since he’d placated it with the cup of green tea earlier that morning. Having lost track of the time while being engrossed in his programs he was startled to realize that more than three hours had passed since his arrival at the library. And Mr. Reese was still a no-show.

Puzzled at the unusual tardiness of his friend Harold reached for his cell. He halted after typing in Reese’s number. Mr. Reese had been really pushing himself with the last batch of numbers, never really having taken a break over the span of more than three days. He hit the disconnect icon on his phone, deciding that he’d take Bear for a walk and get something to eat first - also giving the Machine a chance to communicate a new number to him - before putting out an APB for The Man in a Suit. John certainly deserved the rest.

When he returned to the library there was still no sign or word of John. On his stroll through the streets Harold had received a new number and currently he wasn’t sure if he should be annoyed or worried about John’s continued absence. It was nearing noon for Pete’s sake.

Harold limped through the library, collecting the books he’d need to decipher the Machine’s Dewey Decimal code. After piling the last book on top of the two he’d collected prior, he balanced the small stack on his left arm and fished for his phone in his vest pocket. His call went straight to voicemail. 

He dumped the books on his desk, resting the hand that had previously balanced them on top and stared at the phone in his left hand. Mr. Reese had turned off his cell? _More likely it’s been destroyed_ – supplied the voice of paranoia in his head - a voice Harold Finch had come to trust a great deal. No, he was not annoyed. He was definitely worried now.

He sat down and placed another call. 

“What do you want, Finch?” Detective Joss Carter always managed the feat of sounding both annoyed and eager to help whenever Finch or Mr. Reese gave her a call. Usually it would elicit a small, quirky smile on Finch’s face, but his mind had already started running through various scenarios – none of which were doing anything to ease his feeling of uneasiness. 

“Good day, Detective.” Harold said in greeting, polite as always. “I have another Social Security Number that I would like you to run a background check on. Please.” Harold listened to Carter’s obligatory sigh, waiting for her to ask him to go ahead. After he’d dictated the nine digits to her, which she dutifully jotted down onto a paper pad, she asked, “Alright. Anything else?”

Harold paused. “Yes," he started out haltingly, “have you heard from our mutual friend today?”

Something very audibly clunked on the Detective’s desk and Harold assumed that Carter had tossed her pen down, exclaiming in exasperation. “Don’t tell me you lost him again, Finch?”

“I wouldn’t … not exactly.” Harold still wasn’t entirely sure himself. Maybe Mr. Reese really had just overslept. _Or was lying unconscious in his bed._ Again, the voice of paranoia decided to chime in. _John did get quite knocked around by those thugs that tried to kill their number two days ago …_

“Have you ever thought about getting John one of those dog collars with GPS?” 

Harold could hear that the Detective was only half joking, but he did not feel like laughing at the moment anyway. Since it seemed that John had turned his cell phone off or his battery died (and Harold refused to let his mind come to a more sinister explanation again) tracking Mr. Reese’s position via his phone’s GPS signal was out of the question.

“I would appreciate it if you gave me a call as soon as you’ve got the information.” Finch knew that even though his words had been polite he’d just very rudely cut off the call to the Detective. Truth be told he didn’t care, although he might apologize to her later. Now he had a more urgent matter to attend to.

Grabbing his overcoat and Bear’s leash he hurried out of the library with his destination being John Reese’s loft.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

At Reese’s apartment Finch let himself in after knocking on the door had not yielded any reaction from within. He walked into the open space of John’s living room but was greeted only by silence. 

“Mr. Reese?” Harold called, waiting for an answer. Bear, who sat beside him, eyed Harold with his brown eyes. The dog was nervous, having picked up on his master’s troubled state of mind. 

Limping deeper into the silent apartment, Harold searched for any evidence that his employee had been here. But everything looked pristine, except for a thin layer of dust that had accumulated over the last three days when John had been too busy to even think about household chores. Nobody had been inside the apartment for days, that much was obvious. 

The funny feeling that had plagued Finch’s stomach since this morning evolved into something more akin to burning nausea. Standing in the middle of the bright and spacious apartment Harold felt his heart rate speed up, his vision tunnel and his mouth turn dry at the implications his overactive mind happily supplied unfiltered. 

The world was literally closing in on Harold Finch. “This … is not good.”

_To be continued ..._


	3. Chapter 3

_\- Present -_

Four weeks.

Four weeks since Harold Finch last had contact with his partner. Four weeks of dealing with an erratically-acting Machine spitting out numbers that had needed to be saved or stopped from doing something horrible by him and the limited help the detectives had been able to supply. 

Four weeks of searching and following leads that had all ended nowhere. Four weeks and Harold Finch – creator of the greatest surveillance system the world had seen to this date – still had no idea what had happened to John Reese.

He hadn’t been able to save them all, adding way too many pictures of smiling and mostly innocent faces to the ones he kept in the safe at the library. Each failure was a painful testament of the impact John’s absence had on their endeavor. The paranoid, pessimistic part of his brain kept telling him that his continuing search for Mr. Reese was nothing but a fool’s errand - that John had most likely already been dead by the time Finch had even realized that he was gone. 

Harold kept on ignoring that part, keeping up his efforts while simultaneously working the numbers. Until now.

Now he sat on the uncomfortable, cold metal bench inside the austere Visitor’s Room at Rikers and Harold Finch could literally feel how the strain and exhaustion of the last four weeks claimed their hold over his body. 

Telling Carl Elias about his failure was like admitting defeat and that’s exactly how he felt: defeated. And so endlessly tired.

The game of chess had been forgotten, the black and white pieces abandoned mid-move. Harold knew that his poker face had cracked, that the loss and desperation he felt of knowing that he couldn’t keep on doing this alone were clearly written on his features. 

He fixed Elias with an unblinking gaze, watching a small, sympathetic smile bloom on the other man’s face. “Why didn’t you just come to me, Harold?” asked Elias, sounding like he was actually slightly insulted. 

Finch snorted softly, averting his eyes to the chess pieces on the board. Why hadn’t he? Because of his pride? Or his displeasure at owing that man yet another debt?  
Harold let his gaze travel across the chess board and up to Elias's face. A small, cheerless smile tugged at Finch’s lips. “Would it have made any difference?”

Elias regarded Harold with a piercing gaze, tilting his head sideways. His smile turned lopsided as he reached for one of his Bishops, moving it across the board. Harold’s eyes followed Elias's move, lingering on the piece even after Elias had pulled his arm away.

“It still might.” Elias said nonchalantly. 

Harold’s eyes snapped up to the other man’s face and his breath caught in his throat. Not quite sure if he had understood correctly Finch just stared at the crime boss, his heart pounding a mile a minute. 

Elias folded his arms in front of him and rested his forearms on the blank metal table. He kept his gaze on the pieces in front of him, acting like this meeting was still about the game.   
“Word on the street is," he remarked slowly and casually, “the Aryan Brotherhood has gotten itself a new dog.” Elias looked up, staring right into Harold’s eyes during his last words. 

Harold’s mind was racing at the implications, but most importantly he tried to figure out what kind of game Carl Elias was playing at. The piece of information he’d just voluntarily shared with Harold was very valuable and they had played this game before. Nothing came without a price.

Narrowing his eyes Harold leaned slightly forward, his hands palms down on the table. “And you are just sharing this information with me why exactly?” He didn’t have to voice the _What’s in it for you?_ They were both very proficient in dealing with information.

Elias smiled openly now, amused at Crane’s distrust. “John did save my life once”, he said before growing serious again. “And that’s something I won’t forget.”

Harold inclined his head in understanding, but it was clear to Elias that the man was still wary of taking his words at face value. _Good man_ he thought.   
“Since I’m being honest here," Elias continued, leaning his torso back away from the table in an open and relaxed posture, "beating you at chess just hasn’t been that satisfying lately.”

_To be continued ..._


	4. Chapter 4

_\- Four weeks prior -_

John Reese came to to the sounds of car engines and the swooshing of rubber tires on asphalt. He was lying on his side in - what he assumed - was the rear compartment of some kind of van or another. The metal rails where the rear benches used to be mounted were digging painfully into the flesh of his face and torso. Sitting up turned into a struggle as he found his legs bound and his arms tied together behind his back, making it impossible to properly balance out the uneven swaying of the vehicle as it traveled the streets of New York City or somewhere nearby.

At least that was where Reese assumed they still were. He had no idea how long he'd been out but considering that he didn't feel hungry - or more famished than he'd already been due to his stressful last couple of days - or incredibly thirsty John figured his period of unconsciousness couldn't have been that long. 

Whatever drug had been used on him was certainly fast-acting but not long-lasting and Reese was pleased to note that it went easy on the side-effects, like dizziness or nausea, as well. 

He finally managed the feat of maneuvering himself into an upright sitting position. His breathing had turned labored during his exertion, but the duct tape that covered his mouth forced him to breathe through his nose as he leaned with his shoulders against the bare, cold metal frame of the van. Sweat was trickling down his forehead and neck, stinging his eyes. The blackness around him was suffocating and hot since the thick cloth of the hood that had been pulled over his head rendered a proper circulation of fresh air practically impossible. 

While he fought to calm his breathing, John's mind raced as he tried to remember how he had ended up - tied up and blindfolded - in the back of an unknown vehicle once again. He remembered that he'd been bone-tired, with a quick bite to eat and the anticipation of his rendezvous with the soft covers of his bed the only things on his mind as he'd made his way back to his car. Then he'd felt a painful prick in his neck and even as he'd been reaching up to finger the spot the asphalt had folded up to smack him in his face. The next thing he knew was waking up to total and stuffy darkness.

Reese wasn't tired anymore. Nothing like the adrenalin rush of finding oneself captured by an unknown party to chase away fatigue and drowsiness. However all he could do now was to sit and wait. 

The car ride continued for another twenty minutes before the van took a sharp right turn, passed over a dropped curb and came to a stop. With the engine cut Reese heard what sounded like a garage door being pulled down. One of the van's front doors opened. The vehicle shook slightly as the person exited the driver's cabin, slamming the door closed behind him. Reese counted at least three different steps on the concrete approaching the rear door. There were muffled voices on the other side of the door but he couldn't make out what was being said. 

Then the rear doors were pulled open and a shimmer of light appeared through the texture of the hood. "Now, let's see the money," an unfamiliar male voice said. 

"No," a different voice replied. That one John was sure he'd heard before but couldn't quite place it. "I want to see his face first."

Someone climbed into the rear compartment and roughly grabbed Reese by the lapels of his dress-jacket, manhandling him out of his sitting position. John briefly thought about putting up a fight, but he had no idea with how many men he was dealing with. 

He was literally tossed out of the vehicle, landing hard on the concrete and barely avoiding hitting the ground face first. John grunted in pain as his knees absorbed most of the impact before he rolled onto his side. He was grabbed by his lapels again and dragged up to his knees. Something cold and made of metal, carrying the distinct smell of oil and gun powder to John's olfactory senses, was pressed into his nape as the first voice spoke very softly and very close to his right ear. 

"One wrong move and you are dead, do you understand?"

John didn't react at first but gave a curt nod as he felt the barrel of the gun digging deeper into the flesh of his neck. With one flourish the hood was pulled off of his head and Reese blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light.   
A pair of heavy, black boots stepped into his field of vision and someone grabbed a tuft of his hair and forced his head back. 

Reese immediately recognized the face of the blonde man only inches away from his own. The Aryan moron's smile was feral, both hatred and excitement gleaming in his ice cold blue eyes. "Well, hello there," he purred, pulling even harder on Reese's hair. "Miss me?"

John, whose lips were still sealed by duct-tape, just stared at him with a hostile expression. The Aryan let go of Reese's hair and stepped back a bit. Looking up he addressed the man with the gun behind Reese. "It's him. And you are sure nobody saw you take him?"

"Please," came the quiet voice from behind John, "I'm a professional. The money?”

The blonde turned and motioned for one of his goons carrying a medium sized duffel bag to step forward. He took the bag, unzipped it and held it up for the other man to take a look at the stacks of hundred dollar bills. "Deal?" the Aryan inquired.

"Deal."

A sharp pain accompanied by a hard crack to the base of his skull with the butt of the gun were the last sensations John Reese felt before unconsciousness once more took claim over his mind.

_To be continued ..._


	5. Chapter 5

_\- Present -_

Harold Finch sat on a bench at the East River Park staring across the river at the Williamsburg skyline. He had been waiting for hours and intended on doing so until the person he was waiting for arrived.

Bear was lying beside the bench in the grass, his head resting dejectedly on his front paws. Getting the Malinois to leave the library had been a struggle, since apparently the dog had set his mind on waiting there until his master’s return. All in all Bear looked truly miserable and Harold knew exactly how the animal felt. 

He’d lost another number last night - a young mother of two whose husband had wanted out of the marriage without having to adhere to the prenup. Harold had made sure that the husband would be buried underneath incriminating evidence, but that didn’t bring the two semi-orphaned kids’ mother back. 

No, he definitely couldn’t do this on his own, and now he had his money riding on one very terrible plan. Mr. Reese would be both proud of and furious at him - and that thought actually made Harold smile. 

Bear’s head lifted off his paws, swiveling around to look behind him. Harold turned his body to follow the dog’s gaze, spying a petite, lean figure – hands buried deep within the coat’s pockets – heading toward them over the grassy ground. 

Bear was greeted first. Delicate - yet also very deathly if need be - fingers stroked through the Malinois’ fur. Dark brown eyes fixed Harold in a disapproving glare. “Harold, why haven’t you been feeding him?”

“I’m afraid he hasn’t been eating well lately.” Finch had been worried about the animal. Bear had barely eaten over the first three weeks of Mr. Reese’s absence and had refused food now entirely for the last couple of days. The dog’s ribs were clearly visible through his short brown fur and Harold feared that if he didn’t get John back soon he’d lose Bear as well. His plan – as crazy and risky as it was - just _had_ to work. 

Normally Harold Finch would have never even in the slightest entertained the idea of what he was about to do. His plan - if one could call it that - was simple and desperate, but he had a feeling that John couldn’t afford any more time being wasted on careful scheming. Recognizing the high probability of failure Finch had decided not to ask the detectives for help this time. They both had families – kids – that still needed them.   
However Harold knew his limitations and he wasn’t crazy enough – not yet anyway – to go and try taking on the Aryan Brotherhood on his own. 

Getting up from the bench Harold tugged on Bear’s leash. “I see you got my message.” he said as he started to walk along the river front. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Shaw.”

Shaw remained silent as she fell in stride with Finch, Bear walking between them. “I have a situation,” Harold began after a couple of steps taken in silence, “that requires a specific set of abilities.” Turning his torso while they walked Finch regarded Shaw, trying to gauge her reaction. Shaw’s eyes were roaming the open area and she looked like she wasn’t even listening to Finch. A few strands of hair that had escaped the rubber band of her pony-tail were blown across her face by the slight breeze. “And I would like to ask for your help.”

Shaw stopped, brushing the hair out of her face as she turned to face Harold. “I’m curious. Why would you need my help? Don’t you have your guard dog for that sort of a thing?”

Harold’s gaze dropped to the paved path they’d been walking on before his eyes returned to Shaw’s. “I’m afraid Mr. Reese has been otherwise engaged," he said with a meaningful look.

Shaw’s eyes drew into slits as she regarded the man opposite her. “I see," she said flatly, turning to continue their walk. Finch knew it wouldn’t do any good to pressure the ex-covert agent into helping him, so they walked in silence. 

“If I helped you," Shaw said indifferently after a couple of yards, glancing down at Bear, “would it improve his appetite again?”

Glancing down with worry at the emaciated dog as well Harold replied, “I certainly hope so.”

Shaw stopped again, staring straight ahead. Finch didn’t dare breathe as he more or less patiently waited her out. He knew he had succeeded when she rolled her eyes and then sighed. “Fine. Spill it.”

_To be continued ..._


	6. Chapter 6

_\- Four weeks prior -_

John Reese had no idea how much time had passed since he had gotten knocked unconscious in that parking garage. When he came to, lying on his side on a wood covered floor, he kept still for a moment and listened. But the absence of any sound convinced him that he was alone for the time being. 

He was cold - freezing actually. He opened his eyes slowly, wary of having too bright light burn into his retinas, only to find himself in gloomy semi-darkness. Someone had freed him of his jacket and shoes, leaving him shivering at the low room temperature in only his dress shirt, slacks and bare feet. 

Trying to push himself into a sitting position turned out to be not such great idea. He had to stop midway to breathe through the pain and nausea caused by the relentless pounding in his head. 

Finally having reached a somewhat straight sitting position, Reese took the time to study the additions to his attire. His wrists and ankles were now adorned by a set of shiny new cuffs, respectively shackled together by a strong, 8-inch chain. Further inspection revealed that the wrist and ankle cuffs were attached to a thick leather belt around his midsection through two additional pieces of chain - effectively limiting his range of motion to a few inches at the most.   
As annoyed as Reese was with being tied up and barely able to move it still amused him. Apparently he had made quite the impression on the Brotherhood during their first encounter. 

Awkwardly hunching his upper body downward to be able to probe the back of his throbbing head John winced as the movement tugged painfully at his ribs and the muscles of his stomach. It felt like whoever tied him up couldn't resist the temptation of placing a few kicks to the torso of his unconscious captive. 

Satisfied that the hand that had probed the lump on the back of his head came away dry and free of blood, Reese turned his attention to the object annoyingly digging into the flesh of his neck. It felt like another chain - the links greater in diameter compared to the chains of his cuffs - had been wound loosely around his neck, like a heavy collar. Softly sighing, John let his hands drop to his lap, straightened his hunched-over back, and took a look at his surroundings. 

His eyes widened slightly in surprise as he realized that he was inside a 3x3 m cage, made out of thick, sturdy looking metal bars. John's gaze followed the bars upwards, estimating their length to be about twice his height. He climbed to his feet, wanting to give the construction a closer look. His steps were reduced to a shuffle by his restraints, and he was still about two arm-lengths away from reaching the cage door when the collar around his neck tightened suddenly, choking him. Stumbling backwards Reese dropped to his knees, coughing and clawing at the choke collar to release its hold over his neck. 

John hadn't noticed it before but another chain was attached to the collar, disappearing through the bars at the far end of the cage. Squinting his eyes, he discerned that the chain ran through some kind of pulley mounted high on the wall opposite the cage - giving him enough leeway to move around the cage, but not enough to be able to reach the door and its locking mechanism.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Reese mumbled under his breath, thoroughly annoyed by then. Climbing to his feet again he went to the back of his 'accommodations', giving the bars an experimental shove. They were - as John had expected - quite immovable. He tried the same with the bars on each side, as far as he could get without choking himself. The cage proved to be of high quality, and the room surrounding it looked like it was an old storage basement with only one door - over which a single light bulb served as the sole source of illumination for the entire cold and dingy place. 

Reese sank down to the floor, resting his back on the bars. All he could do now was to wait and see.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reese snapped out of an involuntary slumber at the sound of the bolts of the basement's heavy metal door being unlocked. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but his body's exhaustion had won over his stubborn determination to stay awake. John didn't know how long he had slept, but after practically having spent years living on cat-naps alone he felt refreshed and more alert than before - although his head was still pounding.

He watched the door opposite him open, allowing the fluorescent light from the hallway's neon tubes to flood the room in cone shape, casting the figure standing in the frame in deep shadow. Reese squinted his eyes at the unaccustomed light, remaining where he was casually sitting on the floor with his head leaned back against the metal bars.

The figure reached to his left, flipping the light switch that caused the overhead neon tubes to sputter to life, bathing the entire room in light. There really wasn't much to the room as far as Reese could see from where he sat - naked concrete walls, floor and ceiling with the electrical wiring running unconcealed along the surfaces. 

Blondie - Reese wasn't sure if he had ever bothered learning that idiot's name -sauntered into the room followed by two of his posse, who Reese was sure he'd smacked around before. They stopped in front of the cage and Aryan's minions stayed a step or two behind their leader, mindful of their place within the organisation.

Sticking his forearms through the bars and resting them on the crossbar of the cage's door, Blondie smugly peered at Reese. "You know, there are quite a few fellas back at Rikers who'd pay good money to see you like this."

Reese lifted his head off the bars, tilting it slightly to the side as he indifferently regarded the blonde. "Is that why I'm here?" he asked quietly. "So you can be the coolest kid in the yard?"

Blondie chuckled, while his two goons did their best to appear menacing. "No," he shook his head, "they don't need to know that you are here."

Reese arched an eyebrow at that, gazing unblinkingly at the blonde. John wasn't sure what game the other man was playing at. So far it looked like the Aryan was merely enjoying the sight of John in cuffs and behind bars. Looking at the man now, opening and closing his fists in anticipation, Reese got a fairly good idea of why he'd been kidnapped, shackled and locked up by the Brotherhood. 

Blondie smiled at him, baring his teeth, which actually made it look more like a sneer. "I think our chat at Riker's got cut just a little too short, wouldn't you agree? Besides ... we needed a new dog." He pushed himself off the bars and half turned to his goons. "Didn't we, guys?"  
They nodded their heads in affirmation, mirroring their boss's smug expression.

John closed his eyes and exhaled before opening them again. He figured that something like this had been the reason for his forced stay. "Of course you did," John sighed, speaking more to himself.

John's attention was drawn back to the blonde as the telltale sounds of a key being entered into a lock reached his ears. Blondie swung the door open wide, stepping inside the cage while the two goons remained outside. Reese noted that the other man stayed well out of the area that the chain around his neck allowed him to reach. 

"Get up, bitch," the blonde demanded.

"Why?" Reese asked softly, ignoring the slur. "So you can beat up a man in cuffs?" Reese lifted his hands and smiled coldly - the rattling of the metal bracelets around his wrists emphasizing his words. "You scared of a fair fight?"

John knew that taunting the man - who'd already shown his penchant for fights with unfavorable odds for his opponent - was probably not a good idea, but he couldn't help himself. Also, getting the other man riled up might cause him to let his guard down and this would be the opening Reese was bargaining for.

As expected, Blondie's expression darkened and he turned to his goons, giving them some sort of signal by a jerk of his head. John followed their movements out of the corners of his eyes as they made their way around the cage until they disappeared out of his peripheral vision somewhere behind him. 

Chains clattered behind him just as Blondie spoke again, his right hand making an open upwards motion. "I said 'get up'."

The chain around John's neck tightened and he scrambled to get his feet underneath him as he was mercilessly pulled up by the collar around his neck. Wheezing and gagging, he struggled to breathe - the cuffs around his wrists digging painfully into his flesh as he tried to reflexively reach up to his throat, the chains connecting the cuffs to the heavy leather belt around his midsection drawing taut long before his hands reached the offending object around his neck. 

John could hardly breathe as the choke collar grew even tighter with the metal bars of the cage digging into his back. His feet barely touched the ground anymore to help alleviate the strain on his neck, and spots began to dance in his vision. He knew it wouldn't be long now before he would lose consciousness - his bulging eyes starting to role upwards on their own volition.

Suddenly the pull on the chain lessened ever so slightly, but enough to allow his feet to touch the ground again. John coughed violently - his starved lungs were practically begging for more oxygen. 

In the meantime Blondie had daringly closed the gap between them. Reaching up he clasped the fingers of his left hand tightly around John's chin, shoved Reese's head brutally against the bars and got into his face. 

"You are going to do as _I_ say," he hissed - spittle flying from his foul-breathed mouth, "or you'll suffer the consequences. Do you understand?"

John could barely hear the words over the rushing of blood and the staccato of his own heartbeat in his ears. He just glared at the Aryan with no intention of dignifying that question with a reply. And even if he wanted to, he wasn't sure his battered throat would be capable of producing intelligible sounds.

Reese's unresponsiveness earned him a vicious punch to his stomach, knocking the littler air he'd managed to inhale out of his lungs. Blondie let go of John's face and Reese instinctively tried to curl around the pain, causing the collar around his neck to tighten again.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, or as deep as it was currently possible, John took control over his body and straightened to gaze impassively just past the Aryan. Calm and unimpressed on the outside, John Reese was a raging volcano on the inside. The blonde was grinning at him - his slightly glazed expression betraying how much he enjoyed inflicting pain on the tied up and defenseless man in front of him. 

Reese had never taken pleasure in hurting or killing people. He had done it because it had been expected of him. Because it had been his job - first as a soldier and later as a covert agent. He had learned to lock away his emotions in order to fulfill his duties a long time ago, but it still didn't mean he had to like taking the lives of others. It just had been ... necessary.

Now as he stood there, facing a man who couldn't hide his excitement even if he tried, all John felt was disgust. He had encountered men and even women like that before ... on both sides of the trenches. His own partner back with the CIA had taken way too much pleasure in her job for John's liking, but back then he hadn't been able to voice his aversion.

"Now, let's try this again." Blondie said. "Do. You. Understand?"

John ignored the Aryan, keeping his eyes fixed on a point somewhere behind the slowly approaching man. The smug, arrogant smile vanished off Blondie's face and was replaced by a furious grimace as he charged on Reese, raining one blow after another to the defenseless man's stomach and face. 

Struggling to stay on his feet, Reese tightened his muscles as best as he could to absorb the onslaught of punches. A vicious punch to his cheek whipped his head to the side, causing his muscles to lose their tension. His knees buckled as the following fist landed a punch to his kidney and his neck was forced to support the entire weight of his body again. With his air supply completely cut off John nearly blacked out - however the merciless assault to his body stopped and strong arms pulled him back onto his feet.

Gulping in air and blood from his nose and split lip, it took Reese a couple of minutes to be able to support himself on his own again. When the room finally stopped spinning he lifted his head, his left eye already beginning to swell shut.

Blondie - who'd held Reese up until then - let go of John's shoulder and took a step back to regard his handiwork with a smirk. He looked past Reese at the goons manning the pulley. "Leave it at that length." 

Turning his attention back to Reese he patted John's cheek and grinned at him. "I don't think you have learned your lesson. Yet. How about we give you a few hours to think about how you'd want to change your attitude? I suggest you be more obedient when we get back."

John half-expected to receive another punch to his stomach - just for good measure - but instead Blondie winked at him and turned around, exiting the cage and locking the door behind him. His goons were already waiting for him at the thick metal door as he joined them. Flipping the light off, they disappeared without a backwards glance through the door. Reese was standing alone in the dark - shivering from the cold and the loss of tension in his muscles - with only his thoughts and the echoes of heavy bolts sliding back into their places.

_To be continued ..._


	7. Chapter 7

John estimated he’d been standing for hours now with his back to the metal bars in the never-changing semi-darkness. The collar around his neck was just tight enough to be aggravating every time he swallowed, but at least he was able to breathe. 

He was cold, hungry and thirsty but he knew from experience that his body’s needs were still far from being dangerous to his overall health. His bladder had released itself more or less of its own volition a couple of hours ago, and even though it had felt undignified there was nothing he could have done about it. 

However all those things were the least of his problems as John was about to reach the point where ‘dead on his feet’ didn’t even come close to describing the level of exhaustion he felt. He’d been tired and exhausted even before he was grabbed by the Brotherhood and now he found it increasingly difficult to stay awake. 

His legs were shaking and he’d been jerked awake by the collar tightening around his neck as his knees had begun to buckle a few times already. With each time it had been harder to get back on his feet. Reese knew it wouldn’t be long now before he passed out entirely – strangling himself to death in the process. He was so tired that he actually thought about giving in and therefore robbing the Brotherhood of the fun of smacking him around. They were going to kill him anyway, John had no doubt about that. But what kept him going - helped him find the energy to climb back onto his feet – was the thought that he just needed to hold on until Finch found him.

It was funny really, how fast he’d gotten used to the thought of someone always having his back. Working with the Agency he’d accepted that if you were caught, you were on your own – one’s so-called ‘friends’ forgetting your name and face faster than the time it took a bullet to tear through your body. But knowing that there was somewhere out there, who would be looking for him felt … comforting. 

John was jerked out of his musings as his legs gave out underneath him once more, and he gagged as the collar constricted his air supply. He hated to admit it, but he was reaching the end of his rope. He was still struggling to straighten up when he heard the bolts of the door slide back and the creaking of oil-thirsty hinges as it was swung open. Light pierced his eyes, sending painful greetings along his optic nerves to his perpetually pounding head.

Reese didn’t know who or how many persons had entered the room. All he knew was that with the rattling of the chain behind him finally the pull to his neck was gone. Even if he’d wanted to try to remain standing there would have been no way that he’d have been able to convince his body to heed his commands. 

With the threat of strangulation gone John’s eyes rolled back into his head, his knees buckled and he crashed unstopped and unceremoniously to the cold, hard ground. If it were up to him, he’d just stay there for the next couple of weeks. 

Voices and snippets of conversation drifted into John’s consciousness – making no sense however. He got turned onto his back with a shove to his stomach by a set of shiny black boots and he made out the blurry outline of a man with blond hair towering over him.

The blur was talking – to him or someone else John didn’t know or care – and all he could discern were the words ‘disgusting’ and ‘clean him up’. Another shove to his ribs turned him on his side again. Reese was about to curl into a ball when he was hit in the face by a torrent of freezing cold water. Coughing, John tried to wriggle out from underneath the onslaught of the thousands of ice picks racking over his skin, but they seemed to be omnipresent.

Finally it stopped.

Reese was still busy coughing up the water that had forced itself down his trachea when the light was switched off and the heavy metal door closed again. Lying shivering on the floor John tried to see the positive before he let the darkness take over his mind. At least he was finally lying down and he definitely was not thirsty anymore.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John woke to a sore and scratchy throat accompanied by aching joints. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a cold, but now it was definitely the last thing he needed.   
“Great,” he grumpily mumbled to himself and pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing at his protesting ribs. “Just great.”

Something slipped off of his shoulders and Reese stared stupidly at the object for a few seconds until he finally realized that sometime during his state of literally being passed out from exhaustion he had acquired a blanket. And two metal bowls – one filled with water and the other with what looked like dog biscuits – had also appeared inside his cage and even within his reach. 

Either someone had taken pity on him – which he doubted – or they had realized that their ‘dog’ wouldn’t last long if they kept him frozen like a popsicle and without some kind of nourishment. Pulling the blanket back over his shoulder, Reese crawled over to the bowls and took a swallow of water before skeptically eying the dry-looking, bone-shaped cookies. John wouldn’t allow Bear to eat that stuff but the rumbling of his stomach pretty much left no argument. He scooped up a handful and returned to the back of the cage to sit and lean against the bars. 

Knowing that he would need his strength for whatever fun and games were still awaiting him sometime in the future, he unenthusiastically chewed on one of the cookies and tried to ignore the taste. He let his eyes roam around the cage and the room at large until they fell on a bucket in the corner to his right. Taking another bite of the cookie John’s look darkened as he glared at what obviously should serve as his toilet from now on.

“Just. Great.”

_To be continued ..._


	8. Chapter 8

_\- Time unknown -_

Reese was getting restless. Since the light – or more lack of it – never changed it was difficult to judge how much time had passed, but John estimated that it had been at least a couple of days - maybe even more - since he’d had the pleasure of chatting with Blondie. 

Since then he had been left to his own devices, and quite frankly there wasn’t much to do for entertainment while being tied up within a barren cage. His attempts at freeing himself of his shackles had been fruitless so far, and he’d pretty much given up on trying. He’d just have to wait until a different opportunity for escape arose. Until then he would have to content himself with his lovely accommodations and its exquisite food.

John rationed his supply of bone-dry, tasteless crackers and water to last as long as possible, leaving him in a perpetually hungry state. However his supplies were pretty much depleted now - the water the first to have been emptied. Hunger John could deal with for quite a while - thirst however was a completely different matter. 

Judging by the dryness of his mouth, the painful pull of cracked lips and the headache that had been plaguing him ever since the Aryan had mistaken his head for a punching bag, his body was trying to tell him that it needed fluids.

Sitting on his blanket in his usual spot at the far side of the cage, John leaned his back and head - with his eyes closed - against the bars and kept his hands still in his lap. The skin around his wrists and ankles had been chafed raw and bloody during his efforts to free himself and were now burning like hell with each new movement. 

Reese was bored and tired. He knew that leaving him alone for days on end was part of a tactic of wearing him out. He had been through this before, and he knew he could do it again. The thought that Finch was probably out there - worried sick and looking for him and ready to send in the reinforcements - strengthened his resolve to see through whatever the Brotherhood had planned for him. 

Although Blondie hadn't really divulged why exactly he had been chosen for this lovely stay - besides beating the shit out of him, but Reese figured that was merely an added bonus - John could imagine a few good reasons behind his capture. Eight million to be exact.   
And if his speculations were to be proven to be right John would make sure to thank one Leon Tao in the most imaginative way possible.

A cough - or more like a wet rattle originating from deep within his lungs - disrupted his thoughts and John pulled his knees towards him in order to be able to reach up to cover his mouth with the back of one hand while trying to wrap the other around his still bruised - if not cracked - ribs. After the retching finally stopped Reese leaned his head back and closed his eyes again.

So far he had refused to admit it, but the persistent cough, the aching joints and the burning eyes made it hard to ignore that - besides hunger, freezing temperatures and thirst - a major cold had joined the cast in making his life miserable. On some days, John mused, one loses - on the remaining days ... the others win. 

Reese had been drifting in and out of a restless doze when the noise of metal grating on metal announced the unlocking of the heavy door as its bolts slid back. Jerking to alertness Reese blinked his eyes at the unaccustomed bright light and watched Blondie and his two goons sauntering into the room. The two goons went straight to the back of the cage and John didn't have to think hard about what their assignment for the day might be - especially after the rattling of chains confirmed his suspicions.

He kept his eyes on the Aryan as the man unlocked the cage door and stepped inside. Another cough tickled at the back of John's throat, refusing to be suppressed. The bout lasted longer than usual, leaving Reese light headed and with protesting ribs. Looking up, John found Blondie surveying him from a safe distance with a look of disgust on his face.

"You don't sound too good," he stated, stepping forward, deeper into the cage.

Reese shrugged. "I don't think there's a chance that I can get chamomile tea around here?" The blonde tilted his head to the side, an amused smirk adorning his face. "Thought so." Reese added in a soft rasp.

"I see you made yourself at home?" Blondie glanced around the small space, acting like a concerned host. John wasn't fooled by it. Not for a second. "Good," he jovially continued, ignoring Reese's glare, "because you'll be here for quite a while."

The Aryan peered at John, who'd chosen to look at a point somewhere straight ahead. The smile on the blond man's face widened, taking on a predatory edge. "Now, get up bitch," he said, accompanying the words with an upward moving gesture of his upturned and open right hand. Reese's eyes traveled across the cage, resting briefly on the blonde's face before returning to the spot of previous interest, otherwise showing no reaction to the demand. 

Planting his hands on his hips, tilting his head to the side and adopting a tone of a father chiding his child Blondie warned, "Don't make me say it twice."

Reese closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose. He didn't need the convenient rattling of chains behind him to remember what would happen if he failed to cooperate. For a moment he thought about being pigheaded, but ... it wouldn't do any good.

Opening his eyes, he climbed awkwardly to his feet - cursing his limited range of motion for the umpteenth time. Reese stood ramrod straight, adopting the confident and defiant stance that years of military training had imprinted in his muscle memory and stared straight ahead.

The other man drew closer, circling around Reese like a wolf circling its prey. "I see you've learned your lesson," he purred close to John's ear, his stale breath uncomfortably tickling Reese's neck.

John knew that the uncomfortably close proximity and the taunting were all aimed at getting a rise out of him, but he'd be damned before he gave the blonde any kind of satisfaction. So he continued to stare ahead, keeping his face a blank mask, while his mind was racing - going through his options and calculating possible outcomes to each viable action. None of the outcomes were in his favor.

A quick jab to his right kidney sent Reese back down on his knees - not able to keep the painful grunt from escaping his lips. He wasn't really surprised however. From his experiences with the Brotherhood he knew the beating had been inevitable. Reese closed his eyes briefly, breathing through the pain and wincing as he was roughly pulled back onto his feet.

"You stole my dog." 

Reese sighed. "We've been through this," he said softly, allowing exasperation to creep into his voice as he turned his head to fix his piercing eyes on the other man. "He _really_ didn't want to stay." Reese knew he probably should keep his mouth shut, as he tracked Blondie’s walk around to stand in front of him, his head slowly turning with the other man's movement until it was facing forward again. "And I have to say," Reese continued nevertheless with a lopsided smirk, "I completely understand his reasoning."

This earned him another punch to the gut. At least this time nothing kept him from bending over as he panted through the pain. 

"And as I see it," the Aryan said, leaning down to be on Reese's eyelevel, "you owe us eight million dollars."

Reese looked up from his hunched over position, raising an eyebrow - the stoic ex-op equivalent of an indignant _'What? Me?'_  
Straightening up he said, "I don't see how the Aryan Brotherhood being embezzled by an annoying ... Asian guy is my fault."

Blondie shrugged. "By proxy. Besides we think there's a greater chance of getting our money back from you than from the elusive Mr. Tao." 

John had to concede that the Brotherhood's reasoning actually made sense. Kind of. "And what makes you think that I have access to this kind of money?" Reese asked, slightly amused. 

The blonde chuckled and stepped closer. "Oh no, I may have not expressed myself clearly. I don't want money from you." He paused, waiting for a reaction from Reese. At the former ex-op's raised eyebrow he continued. "Like I told you before, there are plenty of folks out there that would pay good money to get their hands on you."

He practically beamed at Reese as he stood in front of him, his hands interlocked behind his back, rocking back and forth on the heels of his feet. "We're currently waiting for the best offer." He took another step closer. Close enough for Reese to lunge for his throat and squeeze the life out of him ... if he had not been shackled like he was. "Until then, I'll be having some fun with you."

He was fast, and strong. Reese hardly had time to react as Blondie's right fist swung toward his face. John tried to deflect the majority of the punch's force by turning his head with the punch, hoping it would glance fairly harmlessly off his cheek. But the Aryan's attack packed quite the punch and John's reaction came just a tad too slow. Dazed, Reese staggered backwards. He stumbled over his leg irons and crashed unceremoniously to the ground - his bound hands pretty much useless in dampening his fall. 

He just barely had time to catch his breath and tighten his muscles before a foot connected with his stomach, knocking the breath out of his lungs once more. Reese protectively curled around the pain, leaving his back unprotected for another kick to his kidneys. Momentarily paralyzed with pain, John struggled to breathe. His cough chose this exact moment to chime in as well, turning him into a pitifully retching heap on the floor.

The blonde stepped over him, bending down to grab a tuft of Reese's disheveled hair. He pulled John's head painfully off the floor by his hair and delivered three more punches to his face before letting his head limply drop back to the floor.

Stepping back, the Aryan regarded the wheezing, semiconscious mess on the floor with satisfaction as he wiped his bloodied knuckles on his pants. He looked up and addressed his goons, who had silently been watching. "Clean him up."

One of the goons nodded and reached for the water hose as Blondie turned and left the cage. After taking one last look inside he decided to pour even more salt into the Suit's wounds by leaving the cage door unlocked and ajar. Smiling to himself he watched the man squirm as the first volleys of frigid cold water hit him. 

"Make sure he doesn't drown." he yelled over the noise, receiving another nod of affirmation. He left the basement then, humming his favorite song. He had to take a trip for a couple of days but he was already looking forward to his next session with the allegedly undefeatable Man in a Suit. 

_To be continued ..._


	9. Chapter 9

_\- Time unknown -_

John Reese couldn't remember the last time he hadn't felt cold. Huddled in the far corner of the cage and wrapped as best as he'd managed in the old, scruffy blanket he shivered uncontrollably with violent bouts of coughing wracking his body. At least two ribs had been cracked during his last encounter with the Aryan, turning each cough into a special kind of hell.

It had taken him almost half a day - after waking up soaked and frozen to the bones - to realize that the cage door had been left ajar. He hadn't even tried to reach the damn thing, knowing quite well how far the chain around his neck allowed him to go and, also that trying to get rid of it was a fruitless effort. 

At the moment Reese was content with not moving at all. His ribs hurt, his head was pounding, his eyes burnt and the skin around his wrist, ankles and neck looked and felt like it was inflamed. 

He had been left alone for what felt like ages, and judging by the growth of his beard and apparent weight loss - he hadn't really felt like eating for the last couple of days, having to literally force himself to eat his meager ration of the dry cookies - he estimated the time of his capture to be at least two to three weeks. 

At first Reese had been confident that he would either find a way to free himself or that Finch would find him and send in the reinforcements. The only question in his mind had been what would occur first?  
But with each hour that passed without the opportunity of escape John's frustration with the situation grew. He felt himself growing weaker with each day - the lack of food and the feverish cold he couldn't shake were expediting his bodily decline. Now he actually found himself wondering if Finch had even been looking for him. Maybe at first, but after all he was only an asset and easy to be replaced.

"No, he wouldn't leave me behind." John mumbled to himself, his voice no more than a rasping whisper. "He wouldn't."   
He leaned his head back, closing his tired eyes. "You need to stop talking to yourself, John."

_Maybe I'm getting soft_ , John thought. All things considered his accommodations weren't that bad. He'd certainly been kept in worse conditions - hell, he had lived in worse conditions. But back then he hadn't really cared and his friends Jack and Daniels had usually kept him company with a warm and fuzzy haze.

Now, as chills raked through his body he longed for his warm apartment, his soft mattress, his high thread count sheets and at least a week of sleep ... yes, he definitely was getting soft.

The chills and cough had started to worry him. He wasn't usually prone to catching the common cold and he had the feeling there wasn't anything common about whatever resilient bug he had acquired. The chills were the newest addition - a nice touch in making him feel sick as a dog. It felt like what had started out as a case of the sniffles had been gradually working its way to becoming a full-blown and all grown-up pneumonia. Just what he needed.

He needed to get out of here fast, that was for sure. And he needed to make his escape before the Brotherhood handed him over to whoever paid the most. John highly doubted he'd fare any better at the hands of the person or organisation that he had managed to piss off enough for them to be willing to pay eight million bucks just to get their hands on him.

John eyeballed the open cage door but even if he managed to get rid of the cuffs around his wrists and ankles and of the choke collar around his neck he would still be faced with the next obstacle: the heavy metal door with the heavy bolts that locked _from the outside_.

Blondie never entered the basement alone, always traveling in a pack of three. And while Reese was sure that with the element of surprise on his side he could take on the blonde, he also knew that in his current state he wouldn't stand a chance against his posse.

A slight tickling at the back of his throat warned Reese of the next coughing fit. The wet rattle from deep within his respiratory system lasted what felt like hours to John, setting his chest on fire and leaving him gasping for air.

He heard the bolts of the metal door slide open and squeezed his eyes shut. He was so not in the mood. Sighing, he opened his eyes and waited until the blonde had taken up his usual position inside the cage before raising his eyes to direct an impassive look at the man. 

The Aryan didn't say a word. Instead he just moved his open hand upward, gesturing for Reese to get on his feet. John clenched his jaws together, defiance written all over his features for a split second before becoming impassive again as he slowly and labouredly got onto his feet. He shuffled forward at the blonde's beckoning - hating every second of it - and stopped as Blondie held up his hand.

"Good boy," purred the Aryan, flashing him a toothy grin. He began circling Reese again, who stood motionless, staring ahead and flexing every muscle of his body in anticipation of the beating he knew he was about to receive.

The blonde stopped in front of John, sizing him up. Reese knew that by now he must look like the total mess he felt like - hair in disarray, unkempt beard and a formerly white dress shirt that was now stained by grime and his own blood.

"You look ripe. Gonna have to clean you up for the pickup." Blondie took another step closer and John knew the moment his forehead collided with the bridge of the other man's nose that head-butting him hadn't been a good idea. But the feeling of bones giving way accompanied by a satisfying crunching sound that reverberated through his skull momentarily pushed all thoughts of painful repercussions out of his mind. 

Indifferently, he watched as the man staggered backward, trying to staunch the blood flow from his nose with his hands. Suddenly the collar around his neck constricted, cutting off his air and forcing him to scramble to keep up with the backwards pull on the chain attached to the collar. 

Losing his balance Reese's back slammed hard against the metal bars, however the thugs kept pulling at his throat until John ended up on tip toes in effort to alleviate the strain that threatened to break his neck. Struggling to breathe, he wheezed and coughed - the blood roaring inside his ears nearly drowning out all other sound. 

Something warm trickled down his neck adding a new bright crimson stain to the crumbled collar of his shirt. As the edges of his vision started to blur, John heard Blondie's voice over the din in his head - sounding nasal and distorted - ordering his goons to let him down before they killed him.

Next thing he knew the concrete floor was rushing up to hit him in his face with a stunning blow, and John had to use all his willpower not to give in to the darkness that was beckoning to him as he lay there writhing in pain and struggling to force air through his bruised trachea.

A vicious kick to his stomach flipped him onto his side, and he reflexively curled in on himself to protect his screaming ribs. John was kicked several more times until one kick broke through his defenses, catching him on his jaw and turning off all the lights.

_To be continued ..._


	10. Chapter 10

John stirred, noting something cold and hard pressing into his cheeks. His head along with his ribs throbbed with every lethargic beat of his heart, and he groaned as light stabbed his retinas as he slowly blinked his eyes open.

Frankly, Reese was surprised to be waking up at all - his ribs and head were making sure to remind him of the viciousness of the last assault. At the moment he wasn't sure if he should be relieved or disappointed about still being among the living. Head-butting the blonde had not been one of his brighter ideas, considering his rather tied up situation, but the opportunity had presented itself oh so sweetly and the memory of Blondie's surprised and shocked face still made him smile ... would make him smile if it wasn't hurting so much.

As he grew more alert John felt an incredible strain on his shoulders, arms and wrists. He slowly lifted his head to look upwards along his outstretched arms, realizing that he'd been hoisted up by his arms and that his wrists were tightly bound together with the piece of chain he assumed had previously been attached to the choke collar around his neck. 

The metal was painfully digging into the already raw flesh and blood was dripping down his arms from re-opened wounds. Reese got his feet underneath him but struggled to get his knees to lock and support his weight. It felt like standing on jelly but he finally managed to take his weight off his arms. Sighing in relief he leaned his head back against the cold metal bars, relishing the cool feeling against his flushed cheeks. He closed his eyes, evened out his ragged breathing, and left the pain behind by forcing his mind to go to a place and time far away. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Unaware of how long he had managed to keep reality locked out of his mind, John was snapped out of his long-gone bliss by a sharp slap to his face, returning him to the cold, dark basement. 

It took him a while to recognize the face in front of him. The nose was covered in heavy layers of tape, the cheeks and eyes puffy with a purplish-blue tint. A smirk crept across John's aching lips as he got to examine his handiwork up close. Blondie's cold, blue eyes were blazing with hostility.

"The look suits you," John rasped, actually managing an insolent grin.

The other man's face darkened even more as he came face to face with Reese. His voice sounded stuffed and nasal as he promised, "You won't be smiling for long."  
Blondie jerked his head and Reese felt one of his goons step up behind him, grasping his wrists to check John's bonds before stepping back. 

A whip cracked the air behind Reese as the blonde watched him eagerly for any kind of reaction. John closed his eyes at the sound. _Right. This is going to be fun._

Reese slowly opened his eyelids again, revealing the intense blue orbs of his eyes staring calmly and without fear at the blonde racist. "What?" John said slowly, his tone just above a scratchy whisper. "You missing out on all the fun?"

The blonde chuckled, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I wanna see your face."

John smirked as well. It was a humorless smile. "You know, you shouldn't damage the merchandise. It might lose its value."

Blondie tilted his head to the side, his arms still crossed in front of his chest. "I'll just have to give a discount." he paused as his smile - and John knew it must have hurt him - turned predatory. "A _steep_ discount."

The whip cracked again, this time making contact with Reese's back. It sliced through the fabric of his dress shirt like it wasn't even there, ripping a fiery path along his skin. John clenched his jaws together, trying hard not to give a sound. His breathing, which had already been slightly labored before, turned heavy as he exhaled through his nose as he rode out the waves of pain.

The Aryan smiled at him and John's nostrils flared as he allowed pure hatred to seep into his glaring gaze. With a voice that was even lower and hoarser than usual Reese stated between heavy breaths, "I'm going to kill you."

The blonde laughed out loud, throwing his head back. John knew the movement must have hurt, but the other man showed no sign of pain - just pure amusement. "Yeah? Is that a threat?"

"No," John growled, narrowing his eyes, "it's a promise."

Another crack ripped through the air, adding another bloody streak on the back of John's shirt. This time Reese couldn't stop the painful grunt from escaping his lips. His body started to shake uncontrollably and he struggled to keep his feet locked underneath him. Sweat was trickling down his face, stinging his rapidly blinking eyes. 

Blondie stepped up to John, his voice purring close to his left ear, whispering. "Honestly, I don't really see you keeping that promise."

Stepping back the Aryan snapped his fingers and another crack sliced through the skin of John's back. After the fifth crack Reese couldn't hold the pain in anymore, screaming with each new burning cut. Tears of agony were running down his face, joining the droplets of sweat on their way down following gravity's pull. 

Somewhere around the fifteenth crack John lost count, his world consisting only of a god-awful burning agony that took his breath away. His feet gave out from underneath him and a heavy jolt of searing pain in his wrists and shoulders nearly caused him to black out. Actually by now John was welcoming the darkness, knowing it to be his only escape.

Ice cold water was splashed on his face, jerking him back from the brim of unconsciousness. The few icy droplets John unintentionally inhaled caused his coughing reflex to set in with a seemingly never ending fit that drained all his remaining energy, leaving him sputtering and gasping for air.

A few more lashes to his back that barely registered on Reese's mind anymore sent him over the brink into darkness - a darkness so all-encompassing that not even the cold water repeatedly being tossed onto him could bring him back.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was dying. John Reese had been aware of the fact the moment he reached a somewhat conscious state again. He didn't like being awake for it meant agony, but he fought the darkness lurking at the edges of his vision nevertheless. He was lying on the cold, dirty concrete floor and his world was tilted sideways by 90 degrees as he was too weak to lift his head. 

He just lay there, slowly blinking his eyes and staring at the metal bars, but he didn't really see them. How long he'd been lying there he didn't know or care.   
Pressing his cheek to the floor he soaked up the little relief the cool touch had to offer. His body was burning up and his breathing had past 'labored' hours ago.

Reese had always known that he wouldn't die of old age. He had always figured that one day his luck would finally run out and he'd meet the bullet that had his name on it or go down in a scorching ball of fire. 

He could literally feel how the infection that had blossomed up within the cuts on his back was stretching out its burning tendrils all over his bloodstream, joining forces with his lung infection to ravage war on his ailing body. He was either going to burn up or drown in his own fluids. Anyway, it wouldn't be long now.

He hadn't noticed anyone entering the basement or even the cage, but he groaned as two sets of strong hands roughly grabbed his upper arms and dragged him across the floor.  
At least John had the satisfaction that whoever had placed the winning bid wouldn't have fun with him for long. 

Dropping his head between his arms, Reese realized that the moment had come to stop fighting. He was unconscious by the time his body was dragged across the threshold of the basement room, leaving it for the first time in four weeks.

_To be continued ..._


	11. Chapter 11

_\- Present-_

Sitting on the passenger seat of one of his many dark and inconspicuous sedans, Harold Finch nervously eyed the rundown front of one of the city's many warehouses. From the appearance of the building's exterior Finch would have marked it as 'empty' or 'unused', but considering that he spent most of his time working inside a 'desolate' old library Harold knew that looks could be deceiving. 

They'd been sitting at least a couple hundred of feet down the road from the building for the last thirty minutes or so. Harold felt like he was sitting on hot coals, itching to get closer and get his messed-up rescue plan over with. However Shaw had insisted that they first stake out the place.

So they'd been sitting inside the car and watching as ... nothing happened. Finch came as close to fidgeting as it was possible for him, sweat trickling down his back as the heat underneath his heavy coat and vest became unbearable. Fighting the urge to check his watch _again_ Finch watched Shaw out of the corner of his eyes, looking for any signs that would indicate that the surveillance was coming to an end. 

Shaw's eyebrows were creased in concentration as she kept her gaze on the property in front of them. She'd cased the place when they first arrived, having to sternly order an overly-eager Harold Finch to stay put.

So far, Finch hadn't struck her as the incautious type, but something about that plan of his had him all in a - for the untrained eye not quite so apparent - nervous jitter, making Shaw think that Harold had refrained to inform her of all the details. And if there was something Sam Shaw did not appreciate it was being left out of the loop.

Her careful exploration of the building had revealed that there were no back-exits, the only entrance being the one they were staring at in the front - the panoramic window beside it having been crudely boarded up with wood planks. The thermal imaging device Shaw had watched Harold pull out from one of the two heavy bags on the backseat with an arched eyebrow had revealed a total of 10 persons occupying the large interior of the warehouse - clustered mainly around the middle of the spacious room. 

Shaw checked the image again, but nothing much had changed since the last time she checked. She lowered the device and without taking her eyes off the building she asked, "You sure this is it?"

She saw Harold nod beside her out of the corner of her eyes. "Yes."

"Ok." Shaw took a deep breath. "And you just want to 'talk' to them?" she asked skeptically.

"Yes."

"Ok, enough with the mono-syllable answers," she turned to look at Harold's profile. "What exactly makes you think they'll just hand him over to you?"

"I'm sure they will find my arguments irrefutable." Harold said, still staring out the front window.

Shaw's eyes narrowed as she regarded the odd man beside her. She knew that there was a butt-load of money in one of the bags behind them, but she hoped that that was not all of Finch's arguments. When she had first seen the money she had literally balked - surprised at how much Harold seemed to voluntarily be prepared to pay to get his guard dog back.

Shaw had been in the business long enough to know that people like her and Reese were expendable - just mere tools to get the job done, nothing more. If a tool got broken or got lost it just got replaced. Intrigued by this ... loyalty, she had agreed to participate in a plan she now considered not just futile, but also extremely stupid. They were outnumbered five to one. Well, more like ten to one. 

Sensing her hesitation Harold turned to face her, piercing her with his unblinking gaze. "Just ... get me inside like we discussed, Ms. Shaw." His head turned towards the windshield again, his eyes flicking downwards, he added in a soft and uncustomary emotional voice, "Before it's too late." 

Shaw continued to look at Harold's profile for a few seconds before scrunching her eyes shut and shaking her head in disbelief. "Fine."

She climbed out of the car and stalked towards the building with Harold struggling to keep up with her - his limp more pronounced due to the heavy bag slung over his shoulder.

It was showtime. 

_To be continued ..._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said no new chapters till the 27th, because with the holidays coming up I figured the last thing people would care about is whether I post a new chapter or not. But as I checked my emails this morning I think I got an inkling of an idea how the POI crew must have felt after 3x09 – The Crossing aired and all hell broke loose. I certainly didn't want to upset, disappoint or torture you guys on purpose. It's just … I'm going to be pretty busy over the next couple of days (family … do I have to say more?). I guess I can manage to sneak off for 10 minutes or so at some point during the day to post, because I really don't want to be the bad guy here.
> 
> Anyway, long Author's note short, I'm sorry and as a peace offering I present to you the next chapter:

The Aryan was nervous. He knew he might have overdone it with the last session. The last time he'd checked on the bitch the man looked worse than death warmed over. If the deal his bosses had made went sour because that stupid bitch died before the exchange happened he'd be in a world of trouble. 

He sat, bouncing his knees while waiting for the anticipated phone call for the details of the exchange. His nose was still throbbing like hell, turning his mood fouler with each minute.  
There was some kind of commotion at the entrance and he and his men all reflexively turned their heads. "What the -"

Startled, he jumped to his feet with his men following suit and drawing their guns. The blonde wasn't sure if he should be amused or pissed at the sight before him. Jonesy, a six foot hulk of a man, was being marched into the room by a petite, pretty thing, who apparently had her left arm around his man's neck tight enough to make him wheeze. Her right hand was busy pressing the barrel of her SIG Sauer P228 against Jonesy's temple.

Amused, the racist leered at the pretty brunette. "Ok guys, who ordered the stripper?" 

"Shut up." Shaw said, pressing her gun even harder against the temple of her human shield. "Move your hands to where I can see them and tell your men to drop it."

The blonde smirked at her as he slowly raised his hands but made no move to order his men to stand down. Narrowing her eyes Shaw tightened her grip around her shield's throat and aimed her gun at the blonde's forehead. "I'm not kidding." she said tersely. "Drop the guns."

Deciding to humor her, he jerked his head without taking his eyes off of her and his men reluctantly lowered their guns. "Now, to what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Someone wants to talk to you."

"Okay," the Aryan drawled, giving Shaw an once-over. "Just for the record, I could _talk_ to you for hours." Jonesy gurgled as Shaw tightened her hold around his neck even more. She was feisty, he had to give her that. And he liked it when they fought back. "Well, who's so scared of us that they need to hide behind little girls?"

Shaw flashed him a predatory smile before saying one word. "Harold."

The Aryan watched with amused confusion as an owlish looking man, wearing a thick coat and carrying an apparently heavy bag entered the warehouse and made his way to the pretty chick. His steps were uneven due to a very pronounced limp.

The man stopped beside her, letting his thickly bespectacled eyes slowly roam across the faces of the men before him, stopping to rest his gaze on the blonde.

"Hello. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me." Harold greeted, polite as ever. The Aryan arched his eyebrow at the odd pair in front of him. The woman's eyes were constantly in motion and he was sure there wasn't much that she would miss. Jonsey's head had turned a nice shade of red in her grasp, and he was feebly clutching at the vise-like grip around his throat. That one they had to be careful with. The man on the other hand ... He didn't look nervous, per se but he wasn't at ease either. There was sweat on his brow but that wasn't surprising considering that he was wearing a thick overcoat even though the temperature outside had long passed the chilly range. He was clutching the straps of the dark and heavy sports bag with both his hands in a tight grip - so tight his knuckles had turned white. He looked at the blonde unblinkingly through his thick lenses, waiting for him to react.

The Aryan shrugged, his hands still held at shoulder height. "It's not like I had a choice ... Harold."

Harold inclined his head, looking almost contrite. "I am sorry about that but I was afraid that otherwise you would not be inclined to listen to my proposition."

"Well, I'm listening now."

"Very well." Harold paused, gathering his thoughts. "You have something of mine that I would like to have back. I'm aware that you are currently offering that something up for sale and that your asking price had initially been eight million dollars ... although that price has dropped considerably." Another pause. Harold's gaze intensified, almost making the blonde man squirm under it. "I'm willing to pay the _full_ eight million in exchange for my employee. Right now." Dropping the bag of money in front of his feet to emphasize his words Harold kept staring at the Aryan, his face inscrutable. 

The blonde's hands slowly lowered as he turned his head to give his pals a _can-you-believe-this-guy_ look. Facing Harold and Shaw again his insolent smirk was back on his face. "Now, Harold, as alluring as your offer sounds ... tell me, what's to stop me and my guys from just taking the money and tossing you and G.I. Jane out of here?"

Harold could sense Shaw tensing beside him at Aryan's words and with a slight wave of his right hand he tried telling her to stand down.  
Turning his attention back to the Aryan horde he sighed in earnest as he reached up to start unbuttoning his overcoat. "That would be a very unfortunate choice," he stated calmly and deliberately. Having undone about half of the buttons he pulled the lapels aside to expose what he'd been hiding underneath the heavy cloth. "Because then I would be forced to detonate the half pound of Semtex I have strapped to my chest."

Harold watched with a weird sense of satisfaction as the color drained out of the Aryan's face, his unnerving smirk vanishing without a trace. Shaw shifted beside him, still pressing her gun against the semi-conscious man's head.  
The blonde took several steps back - _like it would do him any good_ , Harold thought - and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down a few times. His goons were exchanging nervous glances, as well.

He turned. "Get the bitch." he barked, spurring two of his men into action and with hurried steps they disappeared through a doorway at the far end of the hall.

Despite the severity of the situation Harold felt elated. _We are not too late!_ His mind danced around that thought, while a hostile silence fell over the room. The blonde stared menacingly at Harold's carefully blank face - his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

The man in Shaw's grip offered another pitiful gurgling sound and Harold turned to appraise the damage the female ex-op was causing the man. 

"I think you can led go off him now." said Harold and Shaw gave him a sidelong glance. She wasn't so sure if giving up their only hostage was such a good move and tersely voiced her concerns. "I don't think that's a good idea." 

Facing front again Harold regarded the remaining Aryans with a calculating look. "I don't think they will try anything rash." As if he had to remind them of the explosive's presence Harold tugged at his coat's lapels one more time for good measure.

The Aryan leader pressed his lips into a tight line, hesitating in indecisiveness. At Harold's arched eyebrow the blonde angrily shook his head in acquiescence. Shaw let go of the man's throat, giving him a shove that sent him sprawling across the floor.  
Her newly freed hand moved to cup the butt of her gun, steadying the barrel's trajectory on the blonde's forehead.

"Pick him up." he ordered his men without taking his eyes off of the pair in front of him. He should really not have been surprised that the bitch's friends would turn out to be as awful an annoyance as the man himself. Worse even. 

With Jonesy having been picked up from the floor and deposited on one of the vacated chairs, the staring contest continued until the sound of heavy steps and exerted breathing announced the return of his men bearing the package.

Harold spun his body around, eager to catch a glimpse of his missing friend. His eyes widened in shock at what he saw. The two Aryans were carrying a limp figure between them that Harold could only assume to be John Reese, dragging his bare feet along on the floor. The tattered remains of the once white dress-shirt were soiled with dirt and blood. A lot of blood. There wasn't any white visible on the fabric on Reese's back. John's head hung low, hiding his face behind a tousled mop of black-grey hair.

John made no sound nor did he move as he was literally dumped face down at Harold's feet. Too shocked to move Harold stared at the bloody heap in front of him, his stomach starting to revolt at the putrid smell of infected, rotting flesh.

"Oh God." Harold whispered. _What have they done to you?_

For a short moment Harold Finch was convinced that he was too late after all - that all he would be taking away from this place was the lifeless shell of John Reese. But then John stirred, moaning softly and Harold's initial shock turned into fury. He looked up with blazing eyes and his lips were drawn into a thin line, committing the faces of John's tormentors to his memory.

"I suggest you leave now." the blonde said menacingly. 

Vowing that the Brotherhood had definitely not heard the last of him, Harold awkwardly got onto his knees and lifted John's torso off the floor, attempting to get his shoulder underneath the hurt man's right arm. Shaw stepped up, lending Harold a hand while keeping the gun steadily trained on the men across from them. Together they managed to hoist John off the floor, and Harold was appalled at the fact that he could easily feel the bones of the taller man through the thin fabric of his shirt.

They carefully made their way out of the warehouse and once Shaw was satisfied they weren't followed she tucked her gun inside the holster at her back in order to be able to get a better grip on the arm slung around her neck.

She was angry. No, scratch that. She was furious. "What the hell, Harold," she cursed. "Are you guys dating?! Because nobody in their right mind would do crazy shit like that!"

"I know," Harold pressed the words out between huffs and puffs, struggling to keep up the hurried pace, "that you may have the desire to discuss a few aspects of my plan -"

"Plan?!" Shaw interrupted. " _That_ was _not_ a plan!"

"- of my plan that I may have failed to mention to you, but I would appreciate it if we could shelve that for another time."

Shaw grumbled something underneath her breath which Harold didn't catch. Nor did he care. They finally reached the car and Harold opened the rear door, getting in first. With difficulty he pulled Reese's limp body along with him as he scooted along the seat all the way to the other side, cradling the younger man in his arms as he tried to make sure that there was no pressure on John's wounded back. Shaw leaned in through the open door, letting her gaze roam over the injured man. 

"He needs a hospital, ASAP." she said, her tone flat and unemotional.

"I know. Just follow my instructions and drive ... fast. Please."

Shaw nodded and slammed the door shut. Within seconds of her getting behind the wheel the car peeled off the curb - its tires leaving rubber behind on the asphalt.

_To be continued ..._


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: In this and the following chapters I'm referencing an older story of mine - [**A Hard Place**.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/843559)  
>  I don't think it's necessary to have read that other story, but it does explain some dialogue and the familiarity between the characters.

Shaw sped recklessly along the roads, following Harold's short and clipped directions from the backseat. 

"Dear Lord, he's burning up."

Shaw's eyes traveled to the rearview mirror, taking in the scene behind her. Harold had somehow maneuvered his stiff body into the legroom between the passenger front and rear seats, having rolled Reese on his side - one hand steadying the younger man's body while the other was gently probing his forehead.

Harold was quite unsettled by the heat radiating off Reese's body. After he'd gotten John somewhat settled he took his first closer look at the ex-op's face. Under the dirt and shaggy beard John's skin looked flushed and still bruised from the beatings he must have endured. His cheeks were hollow, accentuating his high cheekbones even more than usual. 

Harold fumbled behind himself, searching for the bottle of water he'd stacked in one of the central console's cup holders. Unscrewing the cap and wetting his handkerchief while trying to balance in the swerving the car - and keeping John steady at the same time - was no easy feat. He ignored the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach as motion sickness started to set in, concentrating on gently dabbing John's face with the cool, moistened cloth.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch said, trying to coax a reaction - any reaction - out of his partner. "John? Can you hear me?"

Worried at Mr. Reese's unresponsiveness he placed two shaking fingers over John's carotid artery, not feeling a pulse.  
"No," Harold whispered, momentarily losing his balance during one of Shaw's evasive maneuvers - the whooshing of his blood pumping through his ears by an adrenaline-fueled heart drowning out the cacophony of blaring car horns that Shaw left in her wake. 

He dropped hard against the back of the front passenger seat, pain shooting along the nerves of his damaged spine. He reached out, trying to steady himself with trembling hands. His mind was uncharacteristically blank, except for one word repeating itself over and over. _No._

The car lurched forward as Shaw hit the accelerator. Inertia caused Harold to fall forward towards Mr. Reese. John's body - unsupported by Harold's hands - rolled onto its back and Finch's breath caught in his throat. He wasn't sure, but he thought he had seen John's eyelids twitch the second that Reese's injured back had made contact with the leather cushions. He took a closer look and he could swear there were minute lines of pain etched along John's features. 

Steadying himself on the seat before him with his left hand, Harold's right hand once again moved to feel for a sign of life at Reese's neck. John's skin was still abnormally hot and sweaty and Harold held his breath as he pressed his fore- and middle fingers against the spot underneath John's jaw. The erratic movements and vibrations of the car made it difficult to be sure, but Harold thought that he could feel the weak thumps of a heartbeat underneath his fingertips. 

He rolled Reese back on his side, throwing quick instructions for Shaw over his shoulder. They were close to help. So close.

Harold grabbed the half-empty water bottle off the floor - since he had dropped it in his initial shock - dumped the rest of the cool liquid over John's burning face. The somewhat rough treatment seemed to work, at least to some extent. Reese's breathing, which hadn't really been noticeable before, turned heavier and ragged and his eyelids began to twitch as his brain was assaulted by a multitude of alarm messages from nerve endings all over his body.

Harold cupped John's cheek, lifting his head off the leather cushions and turning his face towards his own, while keeping John's body supported with his right hand on Reese's shoulder. 

"Mr. Reese? John? Can you hear me? John?" Harold kept calling his name, even as the younger man's eyes began to flutter. "John?"

Reese managed to open his lids halfway, revealing a pair of eyes so glassy that Harold couldn't tell his eye color anymore. "John." Harold breathed in relief, a small smile tugging at his lips. Reese blinked sluggishly as his eyes slowly focused on Harold's face mere inches from his own.

"Harold?" The word was nothing more than a soft whisper.

"Yes! Yes, John. You are safe now."

John tried to swallow, but thought better of it as pain radiated from his bruised throat. He closed his eyes, just to struggle to re-open them again at Harold's alarmed voice calling out his name. Reese felt so infinitely tired and all he wanted to do was let go. But he couldn't do that now. Not anymore. And he knew if he did there wouldn't be a way back - it would be a permanent stay. Instead he forced his eyelids to part, gazing at the worried face of Harold Finch. 

John's lips moved as if he was trying to speak and Harold leaned closer to be able to make out the words. "What ... what took you so long?"

Finch's mouth turned dry and he had to swallow down a lump that settled uncomfortably within his stomach. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Reese. We are close to getting you help now. You just have to hang on." Harold knew he sounded desperately pleading, and he could literally feel Shaw's cold stare on the back of his head.

Shaw was not sure what to make of the two men behind her on the backseat. Before this little extraction mission she had thought that she had them all figured out. She'd pegged Harold Finch for a bored rich guy, with too much time and money on his hands, who paid John Reese a butt load of his excessive money to do his bidding. Whatever ulterior motives they had to help fake her death she didn't want to know. And after having been freshly burned by the people she had dedicated her life to, she hadn't been about to trust them either. 

Watching the two men behind her through brief glances in the rearview mirror and listening to the worried tone of Harold's voice, she'd come to revise her previous opinion. It was clear that Harold actually cared about his muscle. Why else would somebody strap on a bomb vest and march right into the lion's den?

Yet, the formal way Harold kept on addressing the injured man kept throwing her off. It irked her to no end that she hadn't managed to figure them out after all. She had done the research, she knew what they were doing but she couldn't fathom why. She would never admit it, but they'd started to actually intrigue her.

She was snapped out of her thoughts by Finch asking her how far out to they still were from the destination he had given her. She checked their position and did a quick mental calculation. "Two minutes. Three tops." 

Harold turned his body back around to look at Reese. "Help is close, Mr. Reese. Two minutes." _Just hang on, please_ , he thought desperately.

The proximity to the much needed help started to ease Finch's mind. They were going to make it.

Suddenly Reese made a strangled sound. His eyes - which had been fixed on Harold - rolled into the back of his head and his body went rigid. 

"Mr. Reese!" Harold exclaimed in alarm as John's body shook and trembled.

"What's going on?" Shaw demanded to know, and at Harold's frantic "He's seizing!" she pushed down even harder on the accelerator.

Harold Finch didn't know what to do. He felt utterly helpless as his friend's body was wracked with spasms as his muscles were seizing up. He tried to keep John steady, having rolled him onto his injured back. All color had drained from John's face and what Harold could see of his eyes consisted only of white.

Finch had no idea how long the seizure lasted but to him it felt like hours. He wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or more worried as Reese's body finally went slack underneath his hands, but before he could worry about it he was tossed into the side door and pressed into the back of the passenger seat as Shaw careened around a tight bend, bringing the car to a stop with screeching tires.

The door opposite Finch was yanked open, and this time Harold allowed himself to feel relieved as the concerned face of Dr. Madeleine Enright came into view.

"Harold," she greeted, flashing him a calm and reassuring smile as she proceeded to climb into the car. "We really need to stop meeting like this."

Finch wholeheartedly agreed, but at the moment he was just too glad to have finally reached the help Mr. Reese clearly was needed.  
Maddy's trained eyes danced over Reese's body, taking in his gaunt features, the pale and clammy skin, the blood on his shirt and the accompanying inflamed red and blue marks around his throat and wrists. 

"What have we got?" Her voice was all professional now as she untangled the stethoscope from around her neck. 

"He's had a seizure and he's burning up."

Nodding at the information Maddy placed her palm on John Rooney's forehead and cursed at the heat that radiated from his skin. Harold continued to struggle with words, clearly affected heavily by his employees condition. "His back -" Actually, Harold had no idea what had happened to John's back. "It's ... it's -"

Maddy listened to the weak and erratic heartbeat and the telltale sounds of fluid build-up hindering John's lungs from doing their job. Her preliminary physical examination had revealed two, maybe three broken ribs but otherwise his bones seemed to be intact. 

"Help me turn him," she said, directing Harold to give her a hand. She hissed at the sight of mangled and infected flesh. "George!" she yelled, having seen enough. They needed to move. Now. "Take his legs."

Together with the orderly, Harold and Maddy carefully slid Reese off the backseat and out of the car. Two more pairs of hands helped to gently deposit the unconscious man onto a waiting stretcher.

By the time Harold had managed to extricate himself out of the legroom and out of the car, catching only parts of the hectic conversation over John's prone form - "... get his temperature down ... need to administer O2 ..." - the stretcher carrying John Reese had been whisked away through the service entrance of the hospital. 

He made to follow, but a small, yet strong hand clamped around his right upper arm, stopping him in his tracks. He looked at the hand, then at Shaw with a questioning look on his face. 

"Aren't you forgetting something?" she nodded towards his chest and Harold dumbly looked down at himself. 

"Oh," he said, starting to tremble as he realized that he still had enough explosive strapped around his torso to level half of the neighborhood. Shaw guided him to sit at the edge of the backseat, helping him shed his heavy coat. She got down to squat on her haunches in front of him, eying the construct of wires, velcro and explosive.

"So, Harold. You into building bomb vests as well?"

Exhaling shakily, Harold said, "Actually, it's a hand-me-down from Mr. Reese."

Shaw snorted softly. "I'm not surprised. How do you get rid of the thing?"

"It's not armed ... or functional."

Shaw's eyes snapped upwards, a look of disbelief on her face. A ghost of a smile played around Harold's pale lips. "It worked, didn't it?"

"Unbelievable." Shaw mumbled, shaking her head. She got to work on the velcro strips holding the contraption in its place. _They are crazy_ , she thought. _Stupid and crazy_.

Harold watched her undo the straps, grateful for her help. He doubted that with his shaking hands he'd have gotten very far. The adrenaline rush that had kept him buzzing with nervous excitement was wearing off fast. Last time he'd felt this way he'd been rendered a trembling heap, barely managing to sit down in time before he collapsed onto a chair outside a dissecting room at the city morgue, waiting for word on the condition of his employee. 

That night, his and John’s relationship had taken a huge shift - from a distrustful working relationship to something akin to friendship. Maybe friendship was too strong a word. More like a companionable partnership? Hell, he didn't quite know himself.

Shaw was radiating disbelief and annoyance in nearly tangible waves and Harold felt the irrational need to explain his actions to her. "He's my partner," he said pretty much out of the blue, causing Shaw to still in her efforts of untangling Harold's arms out of the makeshift vest and turn her face upwards to look at him. 

He twisted his body to be able to look her in the eyes, his gaze piercing. "You, of all people, should know that in our line of - for the lack of a better word - _work_ your partner easily becomes _all_ you have. The _only_ one you can trust." Harold averted his eyes, turning his body away from her again. "And", he continued, his tone sober and soft, "you would do _anything_ to keep him safe."

There was a breath of silence before Harold looked at the female ex-op again. He gazed at her profile, watching the muscles of her jaw work. He’d hit a nerve, as he'd known he would. 

Without a word, Shaw unstrapped the last persistent strip of velcro and freed Harold from the vest, then carefully placed it on the seat behind them. She helped him climb to his feet again, then gazed at the service entrance through which a throng of medical personal had disappeared with John Reese no more than ten minutes before as Finch straightened out imaginary wrinkles in the fabric of his tailored suit.

"You own this hospital, Harold?" She asked indifferently. 

"No." Harold replied. "But I paid for a wing or two, so I figure they kind of owe me."

Truth be told Harold Finch was not entirely happy about having to make use of his arrangement with the hospital again. But since he hadn't had a chance to complete his back-up medical emergency plan yet and Mr. Reese's need for prompt and professional medical care had been obvious, he’d just had to risk it. He knew that John was in good hands with Dr. Enright, though.

They slowly made their way towards the entrance. Harold's limp was more pronounced now after having been cramped inside the space between the seats. Shaw was asking - seriously or jokingly Harold did not know - if he offered a dental plan as well, when a soft sound reached his ears, stopping him. 

Shaw threw him a confused look as he tried to make up his mind, and to her bewilderment he turned around and walked determinedly away from the entrance. 

_There is nothing you can do now. He's in good hands,_ Harold Finch told himself as he followed the sound of a ringing pay phone nearby. 

_To be continued ..._


	14. Chapter 14

When she received the call that her services had been requested by one of their "VIP" patients, Dr. Madeleine Enright had been on her way home after a long day at the hospital. Being requested specifically wasn't that uncommon for the young surgeon, since she had been able to make a name as one of the best in her field in the greater New York area. However after having spent way too many hours on her feet already she had come close to telling whoever the pampered patient was that - as long as it wasn't life threatening - it could wait until tomorrow.

All thoughts of relaxing on her sofa and sharing a glass or two of red wine with her wife before crawling underneath her soft and warm comforter disappeared as she learned of the special emergency lock-down protocol that had already been initiated, though. She immediately knew who was requesting her services. 

Without further thought she’d directed her car into an illegal U-turn and headed back to the hospital. The last time she'd received that call she had ended up in a long and fierce battle, fighting for John Rooney's - or whatever his real name was - life. 

Harold and John had come out of nowhere and kept her from becoming a murderer, and - more importantly - had kept her wife Amy from being murdered. In her eyes she owed them a great debt that she'd never be able to repay completely, and dropping everything whenever they needed her medical expertise was the least she could do. She had only had a small terrifying glimpse at the work Harold and John were doing, but it was enough to know that whatever she would be forced to deal with was going to be serious.

Maddy had to forcefully keep from fidgeting while she and her team of carefully picked assistants waited at the service entrance for their patient to arrive. The nervous prickling in her stomach that she got whenever her adrenaline spiked in anticipation of a new emergency patient arriving was momentarily worse than usual due to the self-imposed pressure already weighing on her. She would not - _could not_ \- let the man who had saved her wife's life die. 

She and her team immediately sprung into action as soon as the dark limousine skidded around the corner at the entrance of the side street. By the time the car had screeched to a stop Maddy was already flinging open the rear door.

Harold was kneeling on the floor of the car, nearly cradling the unconscious man sprawled on the backseat. His face was pale and his eyes were wide and pleading - clear signs of shock - as Maddy climbed inside the car to assess the injured man's condition. And what she saw and heard she did not like.

John Rooney's body told her a story about the abuse that had been inflicted on him for what looked like weeks. He was malnourished and dehydrated - the shaggy beard poorly hiding the gaunt and drawn features of his face. His heart was racing a mile a minute and his breathing was fast and shallow - a slight blue tint to his lips pointing to the fact that he wasn't getting enough oxygen. 

Cuts, bruises and contusions marred his face and deep and angry looking lacerations encircled both his wrists and ankles. She felt two broken ribs under her careful probing and one look at his battered torso confirmed her suspicion that he must have served as a punching bag on more than one occasion. There were deep blue and purple hematomas covering already fading ones all over his ribcage and abdomen. _Even his bruises have bruises_ , she thought, appalled by the sight. 

Internal bleeding had just gotten promoted to second highest on her list of concerns. Number one was the raging infection of what looked like deep whip marks crisscrossing his entire back. By the way John's body was burning up they had to move fast. 

Within seconds they had him extracted from the car and moved onto the waiting gurney while Maddy rattled off the list of John's injuries, calling for cooling blankets, fluids and an oxygen mask. "We need to get his temperature down," she said as she climbed on the gurney. 

The bruises and cuts around John's neck caught her attention, and she didn't like the swelling her probing fingers revealed. A gloved hand held out the manual oxygen mask, which Maddy accepted and placed on John's face without looking up. She turned up the flow of oxygen a notch or two, nodded slightly as his breathing eased, and then faced her team. 

"Ok, let's go!"

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The trip to the secluded emergency room didn't take long. As soon as the gurney carrying their patient reached the treatment room the team began their well-attuned choreography. Within minutes John was freed of the remains of his tattered suit, revealing his battered, bruised and emaciated body. The portable oxygen mask was removed, and another was placed over his face to cover his mouth and nose, and two IV lines were inserted, administering much-needed cooled fluids, broad-spectrum antibiotics and antipyretics into his bloodstream. 

Electrodes on his chest and forehead as well as a pulse oximeter clipped to one of his fingers fed information about his vitals to the monitor above his head, which Maddy eyed critically. John's pulse was still too fast, but at least the oxygen had helped to raise his stats – if only marginally so. His temperature, however - at 40.3 °C - was dangerously high. They had to get that down before they could get to work on his various injuries. At least this time he wasn't leaking blood like a fountain.

"Where are those damned cooling blankets?" she called out to no one in particular and sighed as - if on cue - the nurse carrying the desired objects and additional ice packs appeared.

They carefully lifted their patient off the gurney, sliding the blanket underneath him and wrapping his body inside the cool material. The additional ice packs were placed on his groin and under his arms to speed the cooling process, and over his abraded neck in an attempt to reduce the swelling around his throat. With their patient wrapped up like a mummy, there was nothing more they could do more but wait and watch his vitals with bated breath.

"C'mon." Maddy muttered, willing the numbers to drop. "C'mon."

_To be continued ..._


	15. Chapter 15

Harold sat at his computer at the library, compiling as much information about the new number as he could. He kept checking his watch every few minutes, since even working on and doing research for a number couldn't distract his mind from replaying the memory of a lifeless John Reese being whisked away by the medical staff over and over in his head. It had been more than four hours and still no word.

Shaw was lurking somewhere behind him, inspecting his sacred hideout with a blank expression adorning her face. Harold was a little unsettled by her presence. He'd tried to dismiss her at the hospital, thanking her for her help with genuine gratitude. She either hadn't gotten the hint or had blatantly ignored it.

Now Harold was berating himself for letting her follow him. So far the library had been kept carefully secret - the place where he felt the safest, surrounded by his books and computer systems. He attributed his carelessness to the shock he still felt coursing through his system. Then again, on some level he felt glad that he wasn't alone right now. Bear, who usually calmed his nerves during situations like the current one, was at Mr. Tao's, and Harold dearly missed his presence.

Shaw cleared her throat behind him and he swiveled his chair to face the ex-op. "You know," she said nonchalantly, "I always wondered what this place might look like on the inside." She had her arms crossed over her chest, letting her eyes roam over the cracked glass board and bookshelves before resting them on Harold's face. She didn't look impressed. "I have to say I'm a little disappointed."

That caught Harold’s attention, and he drew his eyes into a speculative look. "You knew about the library?"

Shaw snorted, giving Harold a look that clearly stated _'Oh, please.'_

Finch stared at her, his mind currently unwilling to even begin to think about the ramifications of that great of a security breach. How long had Shaw known about their hideout and - more importantly - who has she told?

"Relax, Harold." Shaw said, reading his stiff posture and perplexed face like an open book. "I didn't tell anyone and I'm fairly certain that Control has no idea about the existence of this place."

Harold didn't feel particularly reassured by her words, but the vibrating of his phone in his vest pocket stopped his mind's automatic worst case scenario calculation in its tracks. He pulled out the phone, checking the display. The call came from the hospital and his stomach clenched in nervous anticipation. 

"Excuse me." he said to Shaw, pivoting his chair to face the familiar and reassuring sight of his computer screens before answering the phone. "Yes?"

Shaw stared at Harold's back, listening to his taciturn side of the conversation with growing interest. The way his hands had started to tremble the moment he'd checked the display she was sure the call was about his guard dog. _Partner_ , she conceded.

"I understand ... Thank you." Harold ended the call, but didn't turn around. His left hand went up to slowly rub his temple. Shaw walked around to regard his profile and found him staring at his keyboard - yet it was obvious that his mind was somewhere else entirely. She crouched down beside him, studying him with her dark, impassive eyes. 

"Are you ok?" she asked, not even trying to inflect her voice with sympathy. She knew she wasn't good at this, but somehow she had come to realize and respect the depth of the rapport between these two men. Although she never had understood the need of having friends, she could - at least on some level - empathize with what it meant to lose a partner. _In our line of work your partner is all you have_ \- Harold's words from only a few hours before rang through her head.

"I'm sorry," Harold gave her a weak smile, "I seem to be a little preoccupied at the moment."

Shaw could literally see how Harold Finch pulled himself together, turning his attention back to his screen where he had been running the background check on one Harrison Carlyle, 43, unemployed.  
She wasn't fooled. Lines of worry marred Harold's face, and his lips were pressed into a tight, thin line. "Is he going to be alright?" she asked flatly, still crouched beside his desk. 

Finch didn't look at her, his eyes scanning the information scrolling down the screen. "I didn't think you cared."

Shaw didn't reply to his brusque remark. She knew how she was perceived by others. Generally, their initial assessment of her being cold-hearted and ruthless pretty much hit the mark, and normally she really wouldn't care, but something told her that 'normal' was the last word applicable when it came to Harold Finch and his loyal guard dog. 

Harold's fingers ceased their movements over the keyboard. "I'm sorry," he stiffly turned to face her, "I didn't mean to be rude." Shaw nodded slightly, accepting the apology. 

"They've managed to reduce his fever," explained Harold matter-of-factly. "But -" he paused, trying to control the crack that wanted to creep into his voice, "he had to be taken into emergency surgery because of internal bleeding. Due to his already extremely weakened state they are not sure if he'll make it."

His mouth had turned dry as he relayed the information he'd received from the hospital. Shaw's impassive face set his teeth on edge and he had to look away before his composure left him completely. He knew that she was at least trying to be sympathetic, but that was the last thing he needed in order to be able to compartmentalize his ever growing worry for Mr. Reese and to be able to concentrate on their mission to save the new number. Or stop him. Whichever. 

"Now if you’ll excuse me," he said brusquely, turning to his screens. "I have work to do." The dismissal had been loud and clear in his voice and Shaw got back up on her feet - yet continued to linger. 

"You don't have to stay around, Ms. Shaw." Harold told his monitors, still not entirely sure what motivations she had for sticking around as long as she had. The ex-Control operative had made it more than clear that she wasn't interested in working with he and John and that she was only helping him just this once - for Bear's sake. 

Shaw watched Harold, taking in his stiff posture. His fingers were relentlessly flying over his keyboard as the information amassed on the screens - his face pale and somewhat eerie looking as the artificial glow of the monitors reflected on his thick glasses.

She knew he was right, that she should leave. Because if she stayed now she might end up regretting it later. She didn't think she was ready to trust again - _could_ trust again. Not after what had happened to Cole, and having been lied to by the people she'd worked for for years. She still didn't quite know where she fit into this world and the last thing she'd wanted to be doing was working for "the numbers" again. All the numbers had gotten her was betrayal and loss.

She turned to leave - to let Harold deal with his mess on his own. But ...  
She groaned in frustration - angry at herself for what she was about to do. "Oh for crying out loud." she said under her breath, turning to find Harold looking at her strangely. "I'll deal with that Harrison guy."

Finch was slightly taken aback by Shaw's exasperation and a little more than surprised by her words. He opened his mouth to say something but Shaw held up her index finger, stopping him form uttering a sound. "Don't say anything. Just go. Go to the hospital before I change my mind."

He just stared at her for a second or two before he finally remembered to close his mouth. Finch really wasn't sure at all if letting Sam Shaw loose on the unsuspecting populace of New York City was such a good idea. But on the other hand he felt like he was letting Mr. Reese down by putting the lives of strangers above his concern for his friend's well-being. And he had already asked Shaw to work for him anyway, so why was he hesitating?

Making up his mind he gave her a curt nod and got up from his chair to collect the things he'd need to erect a mobile control center. With his laptop case slung over his shoulder he handed Shaw a stack of paper and one of the burner phones and earwigs John and he used. 

"This is all the information I have been able to assemble on Mr. Carlyle. It's not much, given the short amount of time. Just follow him around. Before you do anything, please contact me." Harold especially emphasized the last part, letting his grip on the print outs linger just a little bit longer than necessary. 

"You know," Shaw said, annoyed, tearing the stack of paper out of his hands, "I've done this before. A million times."

"I know," conceded Harold, "but I would very much appreciate it if you at least tried not to kill anyone today."

Shaw fixed him with a steely glare, which Harold parried with an unyielding glare of his own, trying not to shudder at the feeling of Dejá vù.

"Fine." Shaw said at last. "But no promises." Harold's lips twitched into a smirk. _Close enough._

They left the library together with Harold making sure that everything was locked tight to appear that no one had been inside the building for years. Stepping out from the gloom of the alley leading to the library's hidden entrance, Harold stopped and gazed at the display of colors the setting sun conjured over the skyline of New York. He turned to his left, finding that Ms. Shaw had already proceeded down the sidewalk, her back turned to him. He called out to her, waiting for her to face him.

"I don't think I have said ‘Thank you' yet."

She looked at him, her face unsettlingly blank, betraying not a single thought that might be going through her head. She inclined her head once in a curt nod and turned around to walk away from him. 

Harold watched her disappear around the next street corner before lifting his eyes up to the sky once more, taking the time to marvel at the beautiful end to a nerve-wrecking long day and the beginning of what would certainly be a harrowing, long night. 

 

_To be continued ..._


	16. Chapter 16

Harold had made one more stop before heading to the hospital. Trudging through the hospital hallways he received a few disapproving glares, but the 'service dog' vest he'd draped around a sullen Bear was once more doing its job and keeping the people silent. He found his way to the familiar private waiting room and attempted to make himself as comfortable as possible on the plush sofa, while balancing his laptop on his knees. Bear lay at his feet with his head on his paws, not interested in exploring the new environment. 

First he hacked into the hospital’s security system to keep an eye on the comings and goings. The last thing he needed was to be surprised by one of New York's finest ... or worse. He stared at the grainy picture of a hallway, knowing that behind the first door to the left Dr. Enright was once more fighting for Mr. Reese's life and there was nothing he could do to help.

His earpiece crackled to life, startling him. "Harold, you there?" asked Shaw's unfamiliar voice and just for a moment Harold was taken aback. The _'always'_ that he instinctively wanted to say died on his lips, and he swallowed down the lump in his throat before he replied, "Yes, Ms. Shaw. I'm here."

Pushing his worry aside Harold listened to Shaw's cool and analytical voice, immersing himself into the life of Harrison Carlyle, 43, unemployed.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Engrossed in Mr. Carlyle's puzzling finances, Finch hadn't noticed Dr. Enright entering the waiting room. 

"Harold?" she said softly.

He twitched, his fingers stopping mid-keystroke. "Dr. Enright," he said, looking sheepishly up from his screen, "I'm sorry, I didn't hear your approach."

Maddy smiled tiredly at him. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"How is he?" Harold asked, although he was almost afraid of the answer.

Maddy sighed and sat down beside Harold, forcing him to awkwardly angle his body in order to face her profile. Nauseating worry clenched his stomach into knots. Bear lifted his head off his paws, giving a soft whine as he picked up the sudden change in Harold's mood. 

Maddy looked at the dog, brief disapproval of its presence at a place of the sick clouding her face. "He's hanging in there."

Harold released the breath he'd been holding at her words. However Maddy's demeanor didn't fill him with confidence. Leaning forward - closer to her - he tentatively asked, "But?"

"But -" she sighed, turning her head to look at him with tired, compassionate eyes. "I know that you won't tell me what happened to him, but I'm guessing it had been going on for a while?"  
Harold nodded his head in affirmation, his "Yes" an involuntary croak. 

Maddy averted her eyes and shook her head before she began to list all of John's ailments. "He's malnourished and presented with acute dehydration, for which he's receiving nutrients and fluids. He's been strangulated and beaten several times resulting in a vast array of cuts, bruises, lacerations, and contusions, the most serious of which was a small rupture in his spleen, which we were able to repair in time to save it. He's got two broken, two cracked and four bruised ribs, a bruised kidney, and deep lacerations around his wrists and ankles from - I guess - fighting his restraints?" 

She looked back at Harold, whose face had grown pale and grim at her description. "Those injuries," she continued, "though painful, are relatively minor. I'm really more concerned about the pneumonia and his back." Maddy shook her head again. "Quite frankly his back is a mess. He was obviously whipped savagely. There are deep lacerations covering his entire back, and they’re badly infected. I have him on strong antibiotics and so far he’s responding well. We’ve managed to reduce his fever, but now there isn’t much more we can do except wait.”

There was a pause as Harold absorbed the information, calculating the repercussions and drawing a blank on the results. Hesitantly he asked, "But he's going to be ok?"

Maddy let out a breath, having expected the question to be asked eventually. "He's been through a lot and his body is weak. I won't lie to you, Harold. Right now it could go either way."

Finch looked at her face, his wide eyes unblinking and his expression stricken. He turned away from her, the rapid bobbing up and down of his Adam's apple giving away his anxiety. "May I see him?"

"Five minutes."

Harold nodded, set his laptop aside and got stiffly to his feet. His back hurt, protesting vehemently against the movement and just then Finch wondered how long he'd been sitting there, hunched over his research and taking refuge within the numbers that made up the life of a total stranger. 

Bear jumped to his feet as well and Maddy eyed Harold's hold on his leash with growing disapproval. "You can't take the dog with you," she stated, her voice leaving no arguments.

Finch looked down at Bear. During the weeks of John's absence it had taken a special kind of cajoling to get the Malinois to eat, drink or even to get up from his doggy bed. "I really don't want to jeopardize John's health any more than it already is, but is there any way you could make an exception?" 

Maddy opened her mouth, her face already betraying the negativity of her reply, and Harold hastened to add, "Bear _needs_ to see him. Please."  
The undisguised pleading in Harold's voice threw Maddy off. So far she'd known the secretive and slightly weird man to be concerned yet objective. And she'd only met him during situations where most people would have been scared to death or emotional wrecks. Looking at them now she saw the marks the previous ordeal - whatever it had been - had left. Both man and dog were weary and worn out, and she'd never thought it possible but the brown animal looked ... despondent. His big, brown eyes were veritable pools of sadness, and Maddy could feel her resolve fading. "Two minutes."

"Thank you."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harold and Bear followed Dr. Enright down the empty hallway until she stopped in front of a room. Harold tried to peer through the glass window inlaid in the door, but he could only make out the opposite wall. 

Dr. Enright hesitated, her hand flat on the door ready to push it open and Harold's nervousness spiked once more. He absently wondered why he was so nervous. He knew what to expect from the last time John had lain behind those doors fighting for his life. 

But as Maddy finally pushed open the door allowing him entrance, Harold realized that he'd never have been prepared for the sight that greeted him. There were so many monitors and pieces of medical equipment clustered around the single hospital bed that Finch at first couldn't even see if there really was a person underneath all the tubes and wires.

Bear started to whine and pull on his leash, having picked up a familiar scent. With unsteady steps Harold walked closer to the bed, memorizing the sight in front of him. John didn't look that much better than the last time Harold had seen him before he'd been whisked away. The parts of his skin that weren’t covered in bandages or bruises looked too pale, while his face was flushed by the fever that obviously still had quite a hold over his body. His hair was sticking to his forehead dripping with sweat and looking darker than usual.

The head of the bed was raised and they had John lying on his side, presumably to keep pressure from his heavily-bandaged back. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, and Harold could just hear the faint hiss of air and the congested rattle of John’s breathing over the clicks and beeps of the monitoring equipment.

Finch ordered Bear to sit beside him, keeping a tight hold on the dog's leash nevertheless. He more felt than saw Dr. Enright stepping up beside him, the chart board clutched in front of her chest. She followed Harold's tight-lipped stare. “We’re keeping close watch on his breathing and oxygen levels. The pneumonia is serious, but I’m hopeful that the antibiotics he’s on will counter that infection as well. It’s just going to take time.”

Finch didn't know what to say. As always in these situations he felt extremely useless and uneasy. There was nothing he could do to help John - no security system to hack or escape plans to be plotted. All he could do was cross his fingers and hope that John Reese would pull through and work the miracle alone once more. 

A soft touch from Dr. Enright on his upper arm let him know that it was time to leave. "Keep me posted." Finch requested as soon as they'd left the room.

"You know I will."

Harold nodded, tugged at Bear's leash and left Dr. Enright standing in the too bright hallway, watching his retreating back.

While standing at John's bedside and cataloging everything that had been done to his friend Harold had decided that he definitely wasn't done yet with the Aryan Brotherhood. He purposefully strode down the hallway, pulling out his cell phone. A voice muffled by sleep answered on the 10th ring and Finch briefly wondered what time it was, but immediately dismissed the thought again. He didn't care. He felt wired and at first Finch thought the cause lay with the adrenaline-packed day that was behind him, only to realize that he was in fact angry.

Ignoring the confused and mumbled "Who is this?" and foregoing any greetings, Harold spoke the words he knew would grab the other man's attention.

"Mr. Tao, how do you feel about lending your expertise to help me bleed your former employers dry?"

_To be continued ..._


	17. Chapter 17

It was actually a rather nice day. The sun was out, beckoning the people of New York to swarm outside and bask in its warm tendrils in one of the many parks the city had to offer. 

Finch was pretty sure the only ones who didn't want to be outside right now were Bear and he. But since the "simple" surveillance of the latest _numbers_ had gone pear-shaped so fast there just hadn't been another choice for him but to grab Bear and improvise a Plan B. In the end it had been Plan C - as in C4. He was still trying to re-establish contact with Ms. Shaw but he had a feeling she was dodging his calls on purpose.

Finch also had never thought that a) he would ever receive the silent treatment from Detective Fusco, or that b) he would actually be bothered by it. But after having dropped off the Detective at the hospital to get his minor burns treated and not receiving the slightest reaction as he tried to apologize - except for a disapproving stare and a headshake - Harold realized that he would have preferred to have been at the receiving end of one of the Detective's annoyed rambles. 

He was climbing the stairs to one of his safehouses - the one he'd spent the last two weeks practically cooped up in - when his cell rang. To Bear's disapproval he stopped his ascent. The dog was eager to get back – after having had to be literally forced to leave in the first place – and so it had been for the last two weeks.

Harold had noted an immediate change in the Malinois right after that first visit at John's beside, which felt like it had been years ago - not just a couple of weeks. He had been delighted to find Bear eating and drinking again, and eventually Dr. Enright and the hospital staff had accepted the dog to be more or less part of the room's inventory. 

Those three weeks had been some of the worst in Harold Finch's life and he'd been glad to have Bear's calming presence there with him when on a few occasions it had seemed that Mr. Reese's condition had taken a turn for the worst.

On some level Harold still couldn't fathom that John had actually pulled through. After two weeks of touch-and-go under heavy sedation and another week of careful monitoring, Mr. Reese had been declared fit for transport and Finch had finally been able to bring him "home" - as in the billionaire's fully medically-equipped safehouse. 

That had been two weeks ago and John had yet to fully regain consciousness. He'd been in need of continuous painkillers and sedatives when he’d first arrived, but had slowly been weaned off the drugs ever since. Bear and Harold had kept a more or less constant vigil at his bedside, trying to work the numbers from the safehouse as best as he could. 

Today, however, had been one of those days where even Harold Finch wished he'd never heard of the Machine and the numbers. It still acted erratically, sometimes flooding them with numbers after days of silence. Whatever had been done to the Machine by Kara Stanton's upload worried him, and on days like today he wished he could at least on some level share his concern with the only other person that knew about the Machine. 

Bear growled unhappily at being halted so close to the safehouse's entrance, but Harold doubted that he could master being dragged along by Bear's leash, climbing the stairs and fishing for his phone in his coat all at once. "I know Bear, I want to get back, too," he tried placating the dog, wondering when exactly he had allowed the shepherd to take over control. 

He found his phone, checked the display and winced when he saw that it was Detective Carter calling. Finch would bet a good amount of money that the female cop was pissed - and rightly so. Deciding to take a page out of Ms. Shaw's book he shoved the phone back into his pocket and continued his ascent. By the time he reached the door the ringing had stopped. Harold knew he would have to face her wrath eventually, but not today.

Bear immediately disappeared in the direction of John's room and Harold was about to follow him after getting rid of his coat when his phone rang again. However this time he answered it. "Ms. Shaw."

_"What's up Harold?"_

Harold's irritation spiked at the indifferent tone of the ex-op and he had to struggle to keep his calm. Apparently - after her latest rampage - Ms. Shaw had decided to go out for what Harold assumed to be 'steak' before checking in with him. From the sounds of it, she was still in the midst of devouring a large piece of dead meat.

Somehow Harold managed to retain his civilized tone. "I would like to discuss your actions of today."

_"What about them?"_ Shaw replied, her words a vocal shrug. Finch sighed, his free hand reaching up to rub his temple to chase away the headache that always wanted to creep up when he dealt with Ms. Shaw's insufferable attitude. 

"Well, do I have to remind you of that talk we had about less crass and more unobtrusive ways of handling ... specific delicate matters?" He wandered over to the large table in the living area, grabbing a hold of one of the chair's backrest.

_"You know, if you don't like the way I do things you can always look for somebody else."_

Harold's grip around the wood tightened. "I do appreciate your help, Ms. Shaw. I just want to remind you that you are not working for Control anymore and that your methods may have to be adapted accordingly." 

_"You said you needed a distraction. I distracted - and it worked, didn't it?"_

"Yes," Harold exclaimed, his hand soaring up in an exasperated gesture. "But did you _have_ to burn down half a city block in the process?! ... Ms. Shaw?" She once more had hung up on him and he stared at his phone, seriously contemplating if risking high blood pressure - which he was sure this arrangement with Ms. Shaw would eventually lead to - was really worth it. 

If someone had told him two years ago that he would one day actually miss John Reese's methods he would have laughed at that person to their face. He massaged his temple once more, deciding it was time to check in on John and Bear.

John was still immobilized on his side - facing away from the doorway - in order to keep pressure from the stitches in his back, even though the suture clips had been removed weeks ago. Dr. Enright had informed Harold that the wounds on Reese's back would be tender for a while, since the infection had at first hindered the proper healing process. By now the medical equipment around and on Mr. Reese had been reduced to a minimum - which was a welcome sight after the sea of wires and tubes John had been buried under the first couple of weeks. Only a single monitor attached to the pulse oximeter adorning his left index finger and the equipment needed to keep his body supplied with fluids, meds and nutrients were left.

Bear rested his head on the mattress, his tail happily wagging. Harold walked around the foot end of the bed and noticed that John's hand was actually resting on the dog's head, his fingers interweaved with the animal's fur. He let his eyes travel to Reese's face - past the feeding tube, towards his eyes. 

John had been in and out of consciousness before, but he had never really been here - he had always been plagued by nightmares or, more likely, memories. Now his eyes looked straight at Harold, who couldn't have kept the happy smile off his face even if he had wanted to. "John."

Reese frowned at him, causing Harold's smile to falter. "You replaced me already, Finch?" After weeks of being unused John's voice was low and scratchy - not even above a whisper - yet he sounded ... hurt.

"What?" Confused at first Finch didn't really know what to say until he realized that John must have picked up his side of the phone conversation he had with Ms. Shaw. "Oh no. No. No. No, no, no ... No. I _assure_ you, Ms. Shaw is merely helping out. I -" Noting the smirk on Reese's face Harold stopped babbling - that bastard.

Sinking down onto the chair he had already spent so many hours on before, Harold sighed in relief. "You have no idea how glad I am to finally see you awake again," he admitted. 

"How-" John tried clearing his throat - his tongue felt like a stack of sandpaper. 

"Here," Harold said, holding out a cup of water for Reese to take a sip from the straw. The cool liquid felt like heaven on John's parched palate and he savoured the feeling before swallowing it down.

He thanked Harold, then tried again. "How long was I out?"

Harold returned the cup of water to the cart beside John's bed, taking overly meticulous care not to spill any of the liquid. "About five weeks," he said to the cup, before looking at Mr. Reese's surprised face. John still looked way too thin - his cheekbones sharply pronounced on his clean shaven face and the bones of his clavicles clearly visible through the collar of his hospital gown. Finch swallowed. "They really did a number on you, John."

"Yeah, well. They were not the first." Harold felt his stomach clench at Reese's emotionless and softly spoken words. He had read all of the mission reports, seen the medical files and thought he was prepared, but having experienced and witnessed the repercussions of a mission gone wrong first hand was a completely different thing. He could not fathom what it would be like to live through such an experience more than once. 

"You know, Shaw ..." John said, clearly changing the subject, " ... she is going to get the hang of it eventually."

Harold's eyebrows creased. The way Mr. Reese had said the words woke a disturbing thought in his head - something that previously had never crossed his mind, but wasn't that unfathomable considering the circumstances. "You are not quitting on me now, are you Mr. Reese?"

John couldn't help but smile at Finch's worried and slightly scared expression. "Relax, Harold. I'm not going anywhere ... I literally don't feel like moving at all at the moment."   
Reese knew his body and he could tell by the way he felt that it would be some time before he was ready to face the challenges the numbers posed. Until then it looked like Harold was stuck with Shaw - whether he liked it or not. 

Finch felt relief at John's words. For a moment he had been really worried. It might be a while before the Man in a Suit was roaming the streets of New York again, but John was going to be ok - that was what mattered the most to him at the moment. 

He noted Reese's eyelids sluggishly blinking, realizing that the man was actually fighting against falling asleep - having been worn out by five minutes of conversation. "I'm going to let you get some rest,” Harold said, getting up. "I'll be around if you need anything."

"Harold." John's whisper stopped him from leaving the room and he turned around to face the bed again. "Thank you for coming after me."

A variety of emotions - ranging from guilt to relief - played over Harold's face before it settled on a small, lopsided smile. 

"Always."


	18. Epilogue

John walked along the street with a brisk pace. He was breathing heavily - a reminder that he still was far from being back in shape and that his recovery was taking longer than he would have liked. Actually Finch would have a fit if he knew that John was up and about, roaming the streets of New York at night.

But Reese had been itching to get back out there and the longer he spent inside the closer the walls seemed to get. After the first step he took outside he paused, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath - enjoying the brisk night air - before seeking out the shadows with a specific purpose on his mind.

John slowed as he drew near to his destination, keeping close to the walls. He ducked within the darkness of a doorway, observing his target from afar. When he was satisfied that no one was around who would see him, he stealthily made his way over to the blue muscle car. Taking a quick look around before inserting a wire between the tinted window and the metal frame, he made quick work of the locking system, opened the rear door and got into the backseat. 

Sheathed in darkness and with his silenced SIG P229 resting on his knee, he leaned back into the leather seat cushion and waited.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Aryan had had the worst couple of weeks in his life. First that fiasco with the suited bitch - but at least they got eight million dollars out of it ... and a very dissatisfied "customer"- and then some sort of "glitch" had left the Brotherhood's offshore bank accounts empty over night. His bosses had ripped him a new one and he knew he could count himself lucky to still be alive. 

They had traced their money as best as they could. Whoever had cleaned out their bank accounts was good and had a special kind of humor. Large sums had been donated to nonprofit corporations, hospitals, orphanages, etc. - and since the money had not been quite legally obtained in the first place there was no way to get it back. 

He was sure that that bookish looking friend of that asshole of a Suit had something to do with it and he swore that if he ever should lay eyes on that man again, he would make him feel sorry for interfering with the Brotherhood's affairs. But that guy was probably holed up somewhere - afraid to show his face around. 

At least the blonde was sure that the Suit would not cause them any trouble anymore. The way the bitch had been the last time the Aryan had seen him he doubted he made it to the car alive. That thought always cheered him up, though having killed that son of a bitch himself would have been a lot more satisfying. 

Making his way to his car, he got behind the wheel and immediately felt that something was wrong. He looked into the rear view mirror, eyes widening at the dark silhouette of a man leisurely sprawled on the backseat of his Dodge Challenger. 

"Hello," the silhouette whispered and the cold edge to the voice made shivers run down the Aryan's spine. The figure leaned forward - a strip of light falling across the man's face, illuminating cold, blue eyes. 

"Fuck me," the Aryan said as he recognized the features of the man behind him, but by then it was too late. Two muffled shots rang out - the muzzle flashes briefly brightening the interior of the car enough for the Aryan to see the entirety of the man's expressionless face for an eerie millisecond. 

The Aryan's body jerked and excruciating pain radiated from his lower back and chest where the bullets had first ripped through the seat and then through his flesh. He slumped backwards against the seat fighting to catch a breath - only to have blood spill over his lips.

He heard the leather creak as the man shifted on the backseat, and felt the Suit's hot breath on the right sight of his neck. "I _always_ keep my promises."

Another muzzle flash brightened the interior of the car and the Aryan's body fell forward over the steering wheel. The car's horn blared, but by the time members of his posse arrived to check out the commotion, the man from the backseat had vanished without a trace. 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thanks for reading!_


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